


One Promise Kept: Book 4

by Manniness



Series: One Promise Kept [4]
Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 84,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Times have changed and the next generation is coming into their own.  Alice and Tarrant step aside and take up their responsibilities in Iplam.  But the past, despite being in the past, is a shadow one can never truly escape.</p><p>Warnings: Violence, Sexual Situations, Mature Themes, Mild Language</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Champion

 

Dawn comes with a whisper and a kiss to Iplam. The light from the rising sun is a gray, gloaming glow within the mist. The Champion Blossoms stir a bit and when the light is too dim to inspire them to awaken, they resume dozing, drenched in dew.

Alice watches this from the front steps of the manor house. Blades of grass are ticklishly cool and then warmed from her own body beneath the soles of her bare feet. Droplets of condensation soak into the hem of her breeches and her tunic is collecting dust from the often-trod wooden steps. When she stands, she’ll have dirt lines across her rear. Again.

She sighs and lifts her gaze from the still-sleeping flowers that dot the wide clearing. Through the mist and morning muzziness of the land, she makes out the lines of shops and cottages and large-ish homes ringing the widely curving, cobblestone circle drive. The windows of each shadowy residence and humble establishment are dark now, but they won’t remain so for long. Soon, the residents of Iplam will awaken, prepare for the day, open their shops, get to work on their crafts. Soon, this place will be thrumming with life and the living.

So why is it that she – Lady Hightopp of Iplam – feels so very... life _less?_

Alice lifts her hands from where they grip the edge of the stairs (as if she’ll dissolve into the mist if she doesn’t Hold On Tightly!) and regards her palms and fingertips. Her calluses have begun peeling; as each day passes without her having lifted a sword or answer a challenge with a staff, her hands heal.

She doesn’t want them to. In fact, she has been Avoiding this very thing ever since she’d agreed to stay in Upland until Tam had been born. She’d lost her calluses then, but she’d known she would one day have them back where they belong. But, in the back of her mind, she’d known that one day – when it is finally time for her to be a Lady – she would have to let them flake off and fade for good.

 _It’s too soon!_ she thinks, swallowing against the sensation of her heart hardening with despair.

And yet here she is: her calluses are leaving her. She can insist on wearing her usual tunic and breeches or shirtsleeves, vest, and trousers, but she cannot stop the Healing that she is not ready for.

It doesn’t matter, for Iplam is ready for _her_ , is ready for its laird and lady. And Alice has had enough experience with both responsibility and the stubbornness of Underland to know when she’s facing Inevitability.

“’Morn,” Tarrant observes softly, his bare feet descending the steps until he can sit beside her on the dusty planks with his toes in the grass.

Alice nods and accepts the cup of tea her husband offers her. She sips and waits for the heat of it and the strength of the brew to dissolve her melancholy. Perhaps after that she’ll be able to return the observation.

 _‘Morn._ Tarrant had said. It is not a greeting or a hope for a new day, but an observation of the time. Or perhaps it’s not _morning_ he’s declaring but _mourning._ Perhaps he’s giving her permission to continue grieving for her old life.

“’Morn,” he says when he finds her here. (Or perhaps: “Mourn.”) Not: _Gehd mornin’, my Alice._ He has not said “Gehd mornin’, my Alice” in weeks. Alice wishes she could find it in her to miss that. She can’t.

Not so long ago, when she’d still been a Champion and an instructor of the queen’s children in the necessities of self defense, she’d been so sure she could do this. She’d been sure she’d been ready for it, had made peace with herself over it. She’d had plenty of time to do so. Arguably too much time. And Tarrant had waited for her.

More than once Alice had caught her husband looking out over Mamoreal at dusk, his attention turned away from the sunset over Queast and toward Witzend with a wistful look on his face and an ache in his heart that he hadn’t been able to keep back. She’d known what he’d been thinking of: Iplam. Hightopp Village.

She’d known he’d been ready to return. To rebuild. To be a Hightopp again rather than a hatter.

It hadn’t been a reason for Alice to agree to train her successor.

But it _had_ been a reason to _not_ say “No.”

But, she wonders, if perhaps she should have.

Just as Tarrant knows she’s... _not happy_ here, she knows she’s _ruining_ their new life. This is what Tarrant wants, needs, must do, she knows. These are the duties she’d accepted when she’d wed him. And this is her life now that the White Queen does not need _her_ to be a Champion any longer. Or, at the very least, Alice is not needed _now._ Still, she worries that perhaps this temporary retirement will become permanent; she worries that her time as Champion has passed.

Even the tea can do nothing to move _that_ thought full of rocks.

She feels Tarrant shift closer to her until his shoulder presses against hers. Their hands may be occupied, but he can give her this: his warmth, his solidity, his empathy.

“Batten blossom,” she observes on a choked whisper as she stares into her cup of herbal tea.

“From the garden,” he answers.

“It’s good.”

“It’ll be a good harvest.”

Alice nods and despairs for words, for Things of Importance to say. Recently, there is a dearth of both. She clears her throat. “Is Tam awake yet?”

“Nae.”

They both pause, think, and struggle against Alice’s aching heart and burning heart line.

“The party is the day after tomorrow,” she finally says. She knows Tarrant is aware of this. He’d been sitting right beside her at Margaret’s tea table when they’d received the invitation last month. But it’s something to say. Even if it’s not a particularly _interesting_ or even a _worthwhile_ Something.

“Aye. I’ve finished Tam’s suit.”

At the thought of suits and tailorings, she turns toward him and studies his profile as he frowns into his tea. She only has a moment before he looks up but it shows her what she Feels: her misery is making him miserable as well.

_You’re a Lady now, Alice._ _**Try** _ _o act the part._

She forces away the ache as best she can and smiles. “You wouldn’t be needing any assistance with checking to see if your old tailcoat still fits, would you?”

Her teasing is a bit flat – she can hear it in her own voice – but she’s _Trying_. Tarrant answers her efforts with a slow, if subdued, smile. “I might. You wouldn’t happen to have the time for something like that, would you?”

“We’ll Make Time,” she answers, her confidence growing.

“I’ve already Made It,” he tells her, collecting her nearly-empty tea cup and setting it aside with his own. He then reaches behind him and Alice follows his arm until she sees a very familiar wooden case sitting on the porch. “However,” Tarrant continues, unlocking the lid, “I haven’t Made It for suit fittings.”

Alice accepts the foil her husband hands her, leans into the kiss he presses against her temple. It hurts to hold a weapon she has no business with now, but she doesn’t let go. Can’t let go. She needs this. And, bless him, Tarrant is _Trying_ even harder than she is to make this new life of theirs Work. All he needs is a little help from her to manage it.

She stands and holds out a hand to him. His stained fingers slide across her palm before he grasps her wrist. She braces herself as he stands, pulling just a bit against her for leverage.

“Best out of three?” she asks, taking her stance.

“Be-twix five,” Tarrant replies, gifting her with more Time to be woman she had been, when she’d been a Champion. For a little while, there’s Time for her to pretend that she has not stepped aside, that she has not become obsolete, useless, trapped.

She blinks back the sting behind her eyes, takes a deep breath... and lunges. Tarrant meets her attack, greets her pain, her need, her dream. The hiss and kiss of metal, the hush and shush of clothing as it brushes skin, the pitter and patter of footsteps muffled in the grass mingle in the morning mist.

The blossoms sleep and Iplam waits. With silver foils, Champions play.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Being a Champion is supposed to be more exciting than _this_ ,” Tarranya of Mamoreal grumbles loudly enough for the words to echo in the corridor.

Mirana’s serene smile doesn’t so much as twitch. Nor does her graceful stride falter. “Perhaps Champion Alice mentioned the tedium involved with the position?” she inquires airily.

“Well, yes, but...”

“You are aware that it’s the Champion’s responsibility to accompany the queen when she has audiences scheduled with the residents within her borders,” Mirana gently inquires.

“Yes, but...”

“And that today is Wednesday and several meetings have been arranged. Meetings which these visitors have traveled hours, perhaps _days_ , to attend.”

“Yes, but...”

“And it is the Champion’s job to not interfere with the Queen’s duties unless a threat arises.”

“Yes...”

Mirana allows a heartbeat of hesitant silence to pass between them. “But...?” she prompts.

Tarra sighs gustily. “It’s so _boring._ ”

“Be thankful it is, Miss Tarranya.”

This is not the first time Mirana has voiced this particular sentiment. Her daughter has yet to grasp the nuance of it, however. Breaking the pattern of their usual argument – no, no, _discussion!_ – Tarra juts out her chin and demands, “And _when_ are you going to let me take my vows? You already accepted Bethie’s!”

Mirana regards her most stubborn child’s most intimidatingly petulant glare. “Crown Princess Alicibeth has made a vow against harming any and all living things. Do not attempt to convince me that the Champion’s Vow is as innocuous.”

“But that’s just it!” Tarranya’s expression is triumphant. “Now Bethie can’t even protect herself! That vow’s dangerous without a Champion to back it up!” She concludes, “You should have accepted my vow when you did hers. It’s only fair.”

Summoning patience on a wave of caffeine-added control, Mirana replies, “You may argue your point until you are as blue as Batten in the face, Miss Tarranya, but the fact remains that _I_ managed just fine without a Champion for _years._ This is a time of peace and the crown princess is quite safe for the moment.”

Remarkably, Tarra does not jump to refute this.

“Now,” Mirana concludes, “will you consent to be a substitute for the Queen’s Champion today or shall I call for Alice to resume her post?”

She can hear her daughter gritting her teeth. “I apologize for delaying you, Your Majesty. Shall we attend to your guests?”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Tarranya. Let’s.”

As they continue along the corridor, Mirana allows herself a moment to wonder if her obstinate daughter will change her mind. Yes, Tarranya is well-suited to the fighting arts. Yes, Tarranya had been trained by the very _best_ Queen’s Champion in the history of the White Realm. But the realities of the job, which Alice had borne so well, are very clearly wearing on her protégé.

“She won’t like the day-to-day tedium,” Alice had predicted this time last year when Tarra had declared her intent to become a Champion one day.

“No, I don’t expect she will.”

“It will frustrate her and she’ll lose focus. That would be inexcusable.”

“What do you propose?”

Alice had grinned. “If we give her exactly what she says she wants, perhaps she’ll change her mind.”

“Permit her to become a Champion?” Mirana still recalls her utter shock at the proposal.

“Permit her to experience the job, but don’t accept her vow. So long as she does not kill in your name...”

“Yes, I see what you mean, Alice.” She’d sighed. “I suppose it’s our only option. And I’m aware you have other duties that require your attention as well.”

“Yes. Hightopp Village is nearly finished. Tarrant and I will have to... we should...” Mirana had watched Alice scowl out at the office balcony. “We have a responsibility to see it restored. That was what Krystoval intended after healing the land. And that’s what Tarrant’s family would have wanted. And we owe it to the other clans who lost loved ones that day to start anew, to offer a place for the next generation to ply their crafts. Settle down. Open the trade post along the route between Witzend and Mamoreal and Crimson Harbor again.”

Mirana had noticed Alice’s lack of enthusiasm at the idea, but she had not commiserated with her over it. She had not observed aloud that Alice must do this. She had not attempted to soothe her Champion with empty reassurances. There had been no guarantee the queen could make that would have helped in this instance.

“And after your duties at Iplam are completed, perhaps...”

Alice had laughed. “Yes, when Tam is of age, perhaps he’ll replace us, but... Tarrant wants this. His own shop. Something small. He wants to invent, he says. He wants harvests and plantings and his people around him. Amallya, despite being so young, has been ready for months to take over here. He’s waiting for me to say I’ll go with him.”

“Then tell him you will. Once Tarra turns eighteen, we’ll permit her to try the role of Queen’s Champion on for size.” Perhaps the position will not suit her at all...

Alice had nodded and they had been in reluctant agreement.

And now, Mirana wonders what will happen. As they’d anticipated she would, Tarra complains of the job’s ill fit. And yet she is too stubborn to quit. Mirana wishes she could have her first Champion back, but Alice is tied to Iplam and the blossoming village there. For an instant, she daydreams about that past. Alice, standing silent and solid at her side, taking tea together, leaning on each other’s shoulders on a balcony as they discuss things that concern two women who have known each other for a Long Time. Oh, how Mirana wishes her daughter back to childhood and her friend back to Mamoreal. True, she could release Tarranya from her service; she could call Alice back to the castle... But Tarrant would most likely not be able to accompany her, not with the new residents still settling in at Hightopp Village. Yes, Tarrant would remain at Iplam and Alice would be hours away in Mamoreal and what would become of her and Tarrant’s marriage, in that case?

No, Mirana cannot ask her Champion to return. Not to ease her own loneliness. Not even to relieve her daughter of a tremendous and terrifying path.

Mirana does not wish to think about this now, so she doesn’t. She pushes these thoughts aside as she sweeps into the throne room and takes her seat.

The day progresses quite normally. As the White Realm has no official currency, many of its residents travel to the castle when they need provisions but can find no one with which to barter. Or when one requires the materials necessary for building a home or shop. Mirana approves various tributes in exchange for cuts of timbre – from the Stoic Forest, of course, as those trees are the only ones truly suited to holding up a roof for any length of time. She consents to loaning out members of her guard for journeys to Shuchland and Galandonland. She orders bridge and wharf repairs to be carried out upon hearing politely-worded and thoroughly researched complaints.

Yes, a very normal day.

Tarranya stands beside the throne and stifles one yawn after another.

The audiences are finally concluded and Mirana sets aside the last page of her schedule. Beside her, her daughter takes a deep, cleansing breath. No doubt, she’s congratulating herself on having survived another unbearably boring day.

“Your Majesty...”

Mirana looks up as Champion Leif enters the room. “Good...” She consults the rays of sunlight streaming in through the high windows. “... afternoon.”

He nods to her as he closes the door behind him. He does _not_ nod to Tarranya. Mirana notices this, as she always does. As she’s sure _Tarranya_ always does. No, Leif had not liked the idea of a princess becoming a Champion. He had not liked it at all. And, apparently, he still doesn’t.

Although Leif treats her daughter with a chill disapproval _now_ – when she is dressed as a Champion and standing in for Alice – Mirana knows the lion man easily laughs with Tarranya when she is a princess once again, at the end of the day. She worries about this duality. Worries what it will drive Tarranya to think, to do.

She thinks again of that one page in the Oraculum. That one moment in the future that is Coming. Although Absolem refuses to reveal anything else, _that_ image he permits her to see whenever she requests to view it. In the last year-and-then-some, nothing has occurred to change _that_ future. One day, her daughter will share a Soul Bond with this lion man. One day, they will be wed.

But, when that day will be, Mirana _still_ does not know.

“You Majesty,” Leif murmurs, approaching the throne. “You’ve an unscheduled visitor. A furniture maker who has traveled from Crimson Harbor. He says it’s urgent.”

“Is it?” she inquires mildly.

Leif’s golden eyes deliver a solemn gaze. His expression is aggressive with anxiety. “I believe it may be.”

“Then please see him in.”

Mirana retakes her seat and Tarranya sighs. Leif pivots on his heel and retraces his steps down the length of the white hall to the massive doors. He ushers in a short, round-ish, jolly-looking man with an embroidered eye patch.

“Master Symon Setteeson,” Leif announces.

Mirana smiles at the blond, heavyset man but he speaks before she does.

“Yer Majesty. ‘Tis been tae laung since I’ve had th’pleasure.”

Yes, he should have permitted the queen to address him first, but Mirana ignores the man’s lack of throne room etiquette. After all, _most_ of the White Realm’s citizens never see the inside of this room, so how can they be expected to know What Not To Do? “Master Setteeson. I recall our meeting. It was when you crafted this very seat for me, was it not?”

“Oh, aye!” he remarks with a start, as if noticing her throne for the first time. “Still, ‘twas mostly m’Fa’s handimade. An’it looks teh b’ taken gehd be-well o’ye, Yer Majesty. Suits ye.”

“Thank you,” Mirana acknowledges the compliment. “I was very sorry to hear of his death.” The senior Setteeson had been yet another victim to Iracebeth’s incandescent rage. Something about an inappropriately tasseled set of sofa cushions...

“Yer Majesty’s tae kenfull.”

“What brings you to Mamoreal, sir?”

“Well, th’brevin kenment teh tha’ t’would be: a muttermongin’, Yer Majesty.”

“Indeed? And a worrisome one by the look of you,” she muses with atypical directness. But as Outlanders praise plain speaking above tact, she does not hesitate to adopt their customs in that manner. The man smiles with relief at her plain speech. Yes, he’s traveled far and appears tired not only from the journey but from whatever is weighing on his mind so heavily.

“Come with me, sir, Tarranya, Leif. Let’s adjourn to a more private venue.”

And with that, Mirana stands and ushers her visitor out of the echoing throne room.

 

*~*~*~*

 

 _A muttermongin’_ , Setteeson had said.

And a muttermongin’ is right!

Even now, her ears are still ringing with it. Even now her head is still spinning at her mother’s agreement on the action to be taken. Even now her heart is pounding at the thought of herself – Champion Tarra of Mamoreal – Out There.

She claps one hand over the broadsword at her hip, throws the other wide and, grinning up at the ceiling in her room, spins until she’s dizzy and breathless.

_Her first task as Champion!_

She is gloriously overwhelmed by the thought of it! So what if Leif had grumbled and grouched and glared through the entire discussion. So what if he’d insisted she lacks experience and finesse for something like this. So what if he’d roared that she isn’t strong enough to handle her own sword in a _real_ fight. So what if he’d been a right bastard about the whole thing instead of congratulating her.

So. What.

The king and queen and the head of the guard had all agreed: Tarra will be responsible for discovering the truth behind these rumors, this gossip Master Craftsman Setteeson had brought them.

They had all agreed on who will investigate these whisperings: _Tarra._

_Champion Tarra._

She is barely able to contain her shout of triumph. But contain it, she does. For now, anyway.

_Where to go? What to do?_

Sleep is impossible. Totally impossible. All she can think of is where she’ll be this time tomorrow and the role she’ll be playing and the disguise she’ll be wearing and the task she’ll be responsible for and it will be _her Moment!_

And she’s going to _take it!_

This is an opportunity beyond even her wildest dreams. Tarra won’t be proving herself here at Mamoreal with one of her sister’s suitors on the pitch, as she’d always expected. No, her first test will be a Real one. Out There.

And then there will be no reason _at all_ for her mother to refuse to hear her vows.

Tarra is pure jubilation.

She wishes she could share this with someone, but her mother had only grudgingly agreed and her father had smiled serenely and reminded her that this assignment must be kept Confidential. And besides, she is to gather information _only._

“This is a secret, not a battle, squimkin,” her father had said and she hadn’t even minded the childhood nickname in the wake of their Royal Decree. She’d been too numb with shock to object or even wince. As her mind had begun to absorb the gravity of the task before her, she’d smiled; she’d turned toward Leif; and she’d meet a hard mask of disapproval.

“Blasted, bothersome, boy-lion!” she growls to the four walls of her room. Why couldn’t he have been happy for her? Why couldn’t he have congratulated her? He should have! He’s her friend, curse it all! Or, he _had_ been... until Mistress Alice had started training her to be a Champion.

What had happened? Why had he suddenly changed?

Tarra is tired of wondering about that.

She’s tired of thinking about it.

She’s _sick_ of waiting for him to flibbin’ _grow UP!_

 _He_ insists that she’s not ready for this job. _He_ still thinks of her as a child with nothing more important to do with her time than climb trees, _talk to wooden swords, and_ _ **host tea parties barefoot!**_

“I’m a grown woman,” Tarra says, catching her reflection in the mirror. “I’m more grown up than _you_ are.” She’s proud of her sneer. It looks intimidating. It looks like Mistress Alice’s.

Mistress Alice. Yes. What _would_ her mentor do on the eve of a monumentally epic task like this? Would she stand around in her Champion’s uniform, thinking about a stupid male and sneering at a looking glass?

No. She wouldn’t. Definitely not!

Why, as Muchy as Mistress Alice is, she’d march right over to Leif’s room and she’d...! She’d...!

Tarra scowls at her reflection. “She’d do... Something.”

Oh, undoubtedly.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” she reminds herself. “Don’t know when you’ll be back. Anything could happen in the meantime...”

Anything at all!

Tarra pivots on her heel and strides for the door. She passes only one frog footman – Marshing – on the way and then, arriving at the door to Leif’s rooms, her breath puffing in slight pants from her determination, she lifts her fist and _bangs_ on the door.

It opens after only a moment and Leif’s worried frown lifts into a delighted smile. And then, as he takes in the fact that she stands before him as a Champion, he scowls.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, princess?” he growls.

She grits her teeth. “I figured I’d give you one more chance to pull you head out from the hole under your tail and congratulate me. Maybe even wish me luck.”

“Luck?” he snarls, leaning toward her and giving her the Grin of his kind, sharp incisors and all. “If you’ve any skill _at all_ – which I doubt – you won’t need _luck._ ”

“You rotten, insufferable _kitten_ ,” she sneers, glad that she’d practiced it earlier. “I’m the Queen’s Champion!”

He leans back, towers over her, looks down his furry nose at her, and shakes his head. Sighs. “You’re a princess, Tarranya. It’s time you stopped playing dress up and accepted that.”

She’s mad enough to kick him. She considers it. Then decides that while it would be _really_ satisfying, she won’t. She won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her all riled up. She calls upon the control Mistress Alice had taught her and informs him, “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but these aren’t Champion Alice’s clothes. They’re mine. This is _my_ uniform now. I know you’re old and set in your ways but you _could_ make an effort to get used to it.”

“And why would I do that? You realize this is a farce, don’t you? The queen is never going to permit you to take your vows. She’s just giving you what you _think_ you want, showing you the reality of it and, _yes_ , the reality is boring and monotonous!”

“And _exciting_ and _heroic!_ ” she shouts back. “You can’t lie to me – I know you’ve fought before and I know Mistress Alice has fought _lots_ of times!”

Leif considers her. “Yes, we’ve both fought. And Lady Hightopp has even killed. Did she ever tell you what that’s like? To take a life? Did she ever tell you what it feels like to offer up your own life for your king or queen? Did she ever explain _those_ things to you?”

She had, but Tarra doesn’t want to hear it all again. That’s not why she’s here. She snorts. “Yes. And I understood every word—”

“I doubt _that._ ”

“—but _you’re_ the one who just doesn’t _get_ it, Leif,” she continues, blithely poking him in his furry, muscular chest. “I _will_ do this. You and your temper tantrums can’t stop me.”

“Temper tantrums? You’re one to talk.” His gaze flickers down to the sword at her hip. “Carrying that around with you like it’s the steel incarnation of Barnaby the Blade.”

She strikes out. Surprisingly, it’s not a slap she delivers to his cheek or a fist to his jaw. No, Tarra surprises _herself_ by thrusting her hand into his mane and pulling herself up until she presses her lips against his snarl.

And then, in the next instant, she is so _furious_ she can’t _not_ step back and smack him.

The sound of the blow echoes down the corridor. She barely notices his startled and furious expression.

“You kit of a bald Bandersnatch,” she curses him. Damn him for making their first kiss happen _like this!_ _Damn him for_ _ **ruining**_ _it!_ “I’m leaving in the morning. If I’m as incompetent as you think, this’ll be the last time you ever see me. Because I’m foolish enough to get myself killed, aren’t I?” She damns herself as her vision heats and his image blurs. Damn it, she will _**not**_ _cry!_

She’d like to say more, but she can’t.

With a shake of her head, she turns away. She doesn’t even feel the need to tell him good-bye. Somehow she knows it just wouldn’t be... right. Maybe because she doesn’t know who she’d be saying good-bye to. Her friend – _her Leif_ – had disappeared months and months ago, damn him.

“Tarra...”

The sound of her name whispers against the cool stones. A strong, furry hand curls around her arm, turns her around. She fights him: he is not _allowed_ to see her cry!

“Le—! Let—mego!” she coughs around an army of tears.

“Damn you, Tarra,” he growls. “Why are you doing this?”

She gapes at him, at the utter nonsense of the question.

He closes his beautiful, golden eyes, leans toward her and presses a whispery, whiskery kiss to her forehead. Just as he had done when she was younger, a little girl sitting on his knee or being swung around in his arms or being tickled under her chin...

“Damn _you_ ,” she hisses, jerking back. “I am _not_ a child!” With rough motions, she shrugs off his hands. “I’m a grown woman, Leif, and I don’t need you trying to protect me anymore. Not from the monsters in the wardrobe. Not from an opponent on the battlefield.”

She struggles not to unleash the full extent of her fury and confusion and disappointment upon him. These things are hers and she’ll keep them. He doesn’t deserve them. Besides, she fights better on a full temper.

“I’ve grown up,” she reminds him. “Get. Used. To. It.”

And with that, she quits. She quits his doorway, his corridor, him.

She storms back the way she’d come, fuming. Leif is never going to _see_ her as she is. He’s never going to _not_ see a little girl with wrinkled ribbons and blades of grass in her long, pale hair. He’s never going to see her with her shoes on, breeches in the place of petticoats, and a sharpened blade instead of a wooden sword at her side.

To Leif, she’s nothing but a foolish little girl.

And she’s tired of trying to prove that she’s not.

One day, he’ll realize the truth.

Yes, one day, he’ll _see._

Of course, when that day comes, it’ll be too late.

Because she’s already given up on him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, there are a lot of original characters in this chapter (and, actually, in the story itself). However, I have not forgotten about Alice and Tarrant and we will see how their relationship grows and changes under these new circumstances. I hope.
> 
> 2\. I've expanded on my [Glossary of Underland](http://manniness.livejournal.com/11033.html) just for Furniture Master Symon Setteeson. (^__~)


	2. Occasions for Traveling

 

Tarrant opens his eyes when something tickles his nose and the weight on his chest prevents him from gathering enough air for a good snort. He blinks, lifts his head from something that’s definitely _not_ his usual pillow, glances down the length of his body and encounters Alice’s tangled hair in his direct line of sight. She’s fast asleep, her head pillowed on her arms which are folded over his chest. She lies against the length of him, her legs between his own on the wide sofa in his new workroom in their Iplam manor.

For a moment, he is at a loss as to why they hadn’t gone to bed the night before. He surveys himself and Alice – both of them are fully clothed so it can’t be that they’d...! No, no, of course not! Well... not _here_ , in any case! – and then he remembers:

A suit fitting...

A dress altering...

A bit of brushing up on their Upland waltzes...

A glass of Witzend wine and a promise to go to bed in just one more minute...

Tarrant smiles. His right hand is in Alice’s hair and his left is across her shoulders and his right leg has gone stubbornly to sleep and life, in this moment, is utterly Beautiful!

“Eugh. You two are... just...”

On his chest, Alice stirs but doesn’t wake. Tarrant looks up in the direction of the open doorway and grins at his son. “Shush. Don’wake yer Mam.”

Tamial rolls his Orashlach-colored eyes. (Alice calls the color “cognac,” oddly enough... Whatever odd Uplandish thing a cognac is...) “I’m hungry,” their son announces. “What time are we leaving?”

“When it’s Time to leave,” Tarrant replies.

“So I should feed myself, right?”

“That might be wise. I’m currently... occupied,” he murmurs, stifling a giggle at the joke. No, not _pre_ occupied but _Occupied._ A state of being he rather enjoys when it’s Alice who Occupies his person.

Tam snorts. “I know. At least you’re both wearing clothes this time.” And with a visible and obviously exaggerated shudder, their thirteen-year-old son slouches down the hall and into the small, attached kitchen.

“Did our son,” Alice mumbles against his chest, her eyes still closed, “just imply that he’s seen us naked?”

“I believe he did, love,” Tarrant answers, kissing the top of her head.

“Disturbing. Don’ wanna think abou’ it.”

“Then, by all means, don’t, Raven.”

“Mm. All right.”

Tarrant does his best not to laugh. Truly, Alice is unfailingly amusing before her first cuppa. Unfortunately, these days, that is the _only_ time his Alice is amusing. At all others he can feel the weight of her listless dissatisfaction. He hates that he’s done this to her. He hates that he cannot undo it. He hates that he can only distract her with trifles – morning duels and shared baths and herbal teas and aerial snap dragonfly shows at dusk – rather than offering her a true solution.

He sighs. For over a month, he has suspected that this move had been a mistake. And not only because of Alice’s discontentment with the daylight hours. Tam had been very upset to leave his friends behind in Mamoreal. But Tam is thirteen years old and _still_ un-apprenticed at anything! True, there aren’t many opportunities in Mamoreal what with the queen and the courtiers demanding the very best and as quickly as possible. The artisans residing there have no time for leisurely instructings and the customers have no patience for amateurish attempts. It’s time for Tam to consider a trade. Long past time. And as their son has never expressed any sort of interest in providing a service for the king and queen and the royal court, Tarrant had determined that his son’s future must be found by a different route. Why not the one to Iplam?

Still, he wishes his wife and son would have taken to this new life... easier. For Tarrant, it’s more responsibility – as The Hightopp, he is the government of this little cluster of people who have yet to become a Village. For Alice, it’s less – she no longer protects the queen or her children and, with that weight removed from her shoulders, sometimes Tarrant fears she’ll float away. For Tam, it’s more boredom as there are no children here his age. And also it’s harder work: there are gardens and orchards and winevines to tend to and sheep that demand regular coat trimmings and chickens that squabble over who has laid the biggest egg of the day and...

Yes, the world is much... _smaller_ here than it is in Mamoreal. Perhaps it is too small for Alice. Too small for Tam.

Perhaps he ought to send them to Salazen Grum – _No, no! It’s called Crimson Harbor now!_ he corrects himself – and perhaps _there_ Alice might be happier; Tam might take a liking to a trade...

“You’re worrying again,” Alice mutters on a sigh.

“So sorry. Habit, you know.”

Alice lifts her head and stabs her chin into his breastbone. “A new one,” she accuses, opening her eyes just as he winces. “You’re worrying _and_ plotting.”

There’s no use denying it. “I suppose I was.”

Thankfully, she removes her chin from his chest and even, very considerately, shifts her weight off of the inside of his right leg. “And just what were you scheming and why?”

He studies his wife’s face. How far will he go – _can_ he go – to make her happy again? Can he _let_ her go, if that’s what it takes? Can he be the man he must be here in Hightopp Village without her by his side? Or will he fade, fall into gray days again, waiting for her to return to him or waiting for someone to release him from his obligations?

“I’m looking forward to visiting Upland,” he declares.

Alice quirks a brow, alerting him to the fact that she’d noticed the Deliberate Change of Topic. “I’m still surprised to hear those words come out of your mouth,” she informs him, letting the original subject go... for now.

Tarrant relaxes and shifts gingerly – despite the lack of actual ginger; those will be a bit late this year – and winces as life begins to tingle and sting back into his leg.

“Why-ever would you, Raven? That Upland London _is_ a rather interesting place. At times.”

“Yes, especially when you’re off with Hamish, making trouble.”

“Alice...” he sighs with weary tolerance. “There is no _making_ involved. Perhaps a bit of inadvertent _finding_ or maybe a smidgeon of _dusting off_ or—”

Alice presses a finger to his lips.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

Her lips curve into a knowing grin. “We can’t have you incriminating Hamish. Margaret’s quite strict with him.”

“Yes, poor fellow. Why, the way he lets loose when we visit would suggest she never lets the chap have any fun at all.”

Alice snorts. “Listen to you. Switching gears already to London speak?”

He waggles his brows. “Do you really think there are gears up here?” He lifts the arm that he’d draped across her shoulders at some point during the night at taps his temple with his fingertips.

“There must be, otherwise how could you call Hamish a ‘chap’ one instant and manage a rhyme the next?”

“That is an excellent point, my Alice.”

“If the point Alice has excellently made is that there seems to be a suspicious lack of tea, then I wholeheartedly agree!”

Tarrant sighs. Alice looks up at the cat that is no doubt hovering directly and irritatingly over his head, and replies, “Chessur, didn’t we recently have a discussion about the courtesy of _knocking_ before entering a residence?”

“Oh, yes, we did, as I recall. But, if _you_ will recall, I objected on the grounds that I am never curt. Not unless it can be helped.”

Had the observation been made by _anyone_ else, Tarrant might have been amused. “ _Courtesy._ ’Tis _court_ no’ _curt_ , _Cat._ ”

“Oh, is it?” he replies in a too innocent tone. “I _do_ beg your pardon! However, I’m sure you’ll understand how wary even _I_ am of courting a happily wed Lady. Now... about that _tea..._ ”

Alice snorts and sits up. “Subtle, Chessur. _Really_ subtle.”

“I try,” he responds and, with a wink, evaporates.

“Bloody menace,” Tarrant grumbles.

Alice raises her brows as she stands then reaches down a hand to help Tarrant up. “You know he only does it because he finds your ire so entertaining.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” he mutters.

“Of course there is. It comes from the ingredients and method of preparation!” she scolds him, sounding very much like Thackery in that moment. Tarrant sighs; he misses tea with Thackery. That mad March Hare is always good for a round of circuitous conversation and a bit of defensive ducking. Tarrant doesn’t have much use for either in Iplam and he worries his skills may be getting dull.

He looks up when Alice lays a hand on his arm.

“We’ll make a trip to Mamoreal after Margaret and Hamish’s party. I’m sure Amallya would like to see you. You’ve still so much to teach her about haberdashery. And then there’s those special orders...”

He nods. Yes, his apprentice, while _highly_ skilled still has much to learn and Tarrant often takes the more challenging custom hat requests off of her hands. Once Hightopp Village has organized its marketplace satisfactorily and the trade caravans begin passing through, he’ll be able to travel to Mamoreal more than once a week. Of course, at the rate Princess Amallya is learning the trade, he doubts she’ll be needing his counsel for much longer.

“When I’m no longer needed at the castle,” he declares, ushering Alice toward the door, “I think inventing would suit me.” This is not the first time he has expressed this particular musing to Alice. However, she never fails to gift him with a delightfully unique response. This time is no different.

“A bit too well,” Alice remarks. “You imagination might get carried away with you.”

“If that happens, I hope you will revive your skills in my rescue or defense... whichever is needful.”

Alice grins. “I suppose I shall have to. What sort of inventions are tickling your fancy at the moment?”

“I’ve only a vague notion,” he admits, “but I should like to make a hat that would be useful for something other than fashion, rain, sun, and wind.”

Alice rubs his shoulder. “I’m looking forward to this miracle hat already, Raven.”

They stop in the hallway, as if by silent and mutual agreement, and Tarrant presses a soft kiss to her lips. “I am looking forward to hatting you in it,” he murmurs.

She smiles and he leans toward her again...

“No, no, no! That’s most definitely _not_ the way tea is prepared!” Chessur yowls.

Tarrant freezes.

Alice tenses.

“Yes, it is. This is exactly the way I’ve seen Fa do it every single day!”

“I _highly_ doubt there are borogove toenails in Iplam Breakfast Blend,” Chessur asserts with an audible sniff of derision.

Tarrant turns his head away from the kitchen doorway just down the hall at the touch of his wife’s hand against his cheek.

“You know that’s just a ploy to get us to make it for them,” Alice murmurs, rising up on the balls of her feet to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Aye. We’re onteh their tricks,” he agrees, moving against her as her hands settle on his hips.

“Bah! I _told_ you not to add those vile, rancid things!”

Alice pulls away and sniffs the air. She winces and sputters. “Or... perhaps not.”

“Perhaps,” he concurs, fighting the urge to gag at the stench.

Chessur executes a very authentic rant: “Yet again, the next generation utterly _mutilates_ Time-honored traditions out of ignorance and hubris!”

“Well, _you_ could have made it yourself! Didn’t want to get your paws dirty, Chess?”

Alice sighs.

“Aye, we’d better see teh that.”

“You go first. You duck faster than I do.”

He chuckles. “And I could use the practice.”

They brave the kitchen, point Tam and Chessur to out-of-the-way chairs, open the windows and address the abused the teapot.

“We’ll never get the taste out of this clay,” Tarrant mutters, nodding for Alice to take it Away, which she does while he starts with a fresh pot and _no_ borogove toenails. “These,” he educates his son while Chessur looks on smugly, “are for the Batten bushes. In the garden. To keep the bread-and-butter flies away.”

Tam sulks and Chessur grins.

Even though tea hasn’t been served yet, Alice begins her lecture. “Now, Chess. While we’re gone, we expect you to keep an eye on things—”

“Yes, yes, sit in the village and watch. Watching the village sit. Village-sitting,” Tarrant interjects with a giggling snort. Alice playfully pinches his elbow for interrupting her. He doesn’t apologize.

The do’s and do-not’s are explained and Chessur is sworn not to cause mischief and then after a frantic half hour of bathing and hectic packing, Tarrant finds himself regarding the large mirror in the manor’s hat workshop. In its non-reflective surface, they can see Alice’s older sister sitting in an armchair in Hamish’s private study. Waiting patiently.

Tarrant watches his wife and then his son step through. And just as he collects their small trunk, he pauses, straightens, looks Chessur in the eye and declares, “And _no_ jabberwockies!”

The cat looks rather disappointed at that rule and Tarrant can’t stop himself from smirking in reply before he steps through the looking glass.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tamial Hightopp – forlorn and down-trodden, once-was champion of the Futterwhacken – sighs dramatically as he takes in the scene before him.

His Mam is exclaiming over Aunt Margaret’s needlework stuff in a tone even _he_ knows is totally false. You’d think Aunt Margaret would realize...

He shakes his head and huffs. Grown ups.

His Fa is nodding thoughtfully as Uncle Hamish demonstrates the correct posture for a croquet swing. Tam rolls his eyes. “Fa doesn’t even _play_ croquet,” he grumbles.

“I’m sure it’s all a secret code.”

“For what?” he asks, turning toward his dark-haired cousin, Winslow.

The taller boy leans in and confides, “Fencing.”

“Fencing?” Tam is confused. “What about it?”

“Mother doesn’t want him to do it anymore. She says he’s too fat.”

Tam evaluates his uncle’s form. “Well, he is...”

“So he _says_ he’s taken up croquet, but...”

Tam smirks. “You think he goes fencing when he’s supposed to be at the playing field?”

“Got it in one.”

“Should I ask him what his score is?”

“Or maybe to see his croquet stick? I bet it’s as new as the day he bought it.”

“Why hasn’t your mother noticed yet?”

Win shrugs. “Grown ups.” It’s both an explanation and a curse.

They snort with humor.

“What’re you laughing about?”

Win sighs. “Nothing, Townley.”

“You _always_ say that!” the younger boy protests. “But when Elaine asks, you always tell _her!_ ”

“All right, what’s going on over here? What are you keeping from Lee _this time_?” a girl with carrot-orange ringlets demands.

Tam goggles. “You’re bossier every time I see you, Laney.”

“Thank you. Now, Win, _what_ are you on about?”

“Just a stupid croquet stick,” he informs her reluctantly.

“Well, that _does_ sound pretty stupid,” she agrees, crossing her arms.

“Why couldn’t you just _tell_ me that?” Lee whines.

Win throws his hands up and shakes his head. He leans down to pick up Tam’s travel bag. “Come on, Tam. Let’s go see if Lucinda’s finished with your room yet.”

They leave the stuffy, crowded room and the moment the door closes behind them, they blaze a path for the stairs. “Come on!” Win declares, dumping Tam’s bag in his room and gesturing for him to keep up. They climb another flight up to the attic floor of the grand country estate and tromp into a small, modest parlor.

“Look out there,” Win directs him, pointing to the window. Tam does. Far below and across the lawn, people are setting up a dance floor and streamers and canvas pavilions.

“That’s for the party tonight?” he guesses.

Win nods and a wistful grin stretches his mouth wide. “Chef’s cooking for it. Something special.” He closes his eyes in abject anticipation. “I can only _imagine..._ ”

Tamial Hightopp – the most menacing mischief maker in all of Underland... and now Upland! – grins. “You wanna find out?”

Win opens his brown eyes and grins. “What do you have in mind?”

Tam waggles his brows – tamer than his Fa’s after he’d had a word or two with them about _not_ growing wild – and invites, “Follow me!”

Fifteen minutes later, stolen and squished chunks of sticky sweet bread in hand, the pair take refuge from the chef’s wrath by the pond behind the stables. They giggle over their near misses from that rolling pin swinging hoyden and try to outdo each other in making sugary messes all over their hands and faces.

Win leans back on his elbows and declares, “I’m glad you’re visiting again. It’s so _dull_ with just Laney and Lee out here. I can’t wait to go back to the city.”

“What about your lessons?” Tam asks. He’d actually been surprised to find that he’d missed his teacher – stuffy Master Fenruffle – back in Mamoreal. And, well, _of course_ he misses his two best friends. He wonders if the little, lost rath Ian had found in the forest near the castle is doing all right. Toves can leave nasty scrapes, he knows. And he wonders what Lanny’s doing now, if Thackery’s counted the jars of compote. Tam shakes his head at the thought of Lan’s sweets hoard...

“Lessons!” Win scoffs. “Boring. Pointless. Why do I need to waste my time learning French or Maths or Geography? Everybody knows I’m going to be joining the company just as soon as I’m old enough.”

Tam frowns. “But wouldn’t all that stuff be useful for a trader?”

Win sighs heavily. “It would. But I’m not joining _that_ company. I’ll be taking my father’s old position.”

“Says who?”

“Grandfather Manchester.” Win scowls and begins picking apart the remains of his spoils from the kitchen. “In about five years, I’ll be old enough to be an apprentice. Making pots and pans and tea kettles. Wonderful. So exciting.”

“My Fa would get pretty excited about tea kettles, actually.”

“Well, but that’s because he’s mad.”

“True.” Tam squints into the water as Win chucks a piece of bread at it. One of the Ascots’ fat, boringly colored ducks paddles over and gobbles up the soggy morsel. “Fa wants me to enter a trade.”

“But you’re only _my_ age!”

He shrugs and contemplates the remains of his own half-loaf. Despite the hollow feeling in his stomach, it no longer looks appealing. “I know. But that’s the way it is... there.”

“In Underland, you mean?”

Tam nods.

Win tosses another bit of bread toward the ducks, which scramble and squabble over it. “I wish we could change places,” he announces. “I’d give anything to do something really _interesting_ like be a champion like Aunt Alice. Or maybe a horsemaster like... who was it again?”

“Prince Chestor.”

“Yes. Prince Chestor. Or even a courtier! I’d make a rather dashing courtier, I think!”

Tam snorts and giggles. “Sure. You’d have to wear a white wig though.”

“What for?”

“Well, it’s called the White Court for a reason, isn’t it?”

Win considers this seriously for a moment and then shrugs. “We’d make our own court! No wigs allowed.”

“Eat whatever we want...”

“Ride around Underland looking for adventure...”

“Have sword fights and do away with villains!” Tam tosses a corner of bread crust at the ducks. “Sounds great, doesn’t it?”

When Win doesn’t answer, he looks over his shoulder. His cousin is frowning so fiercely Tam wonders if he’s about to cry. “Win?”

“No, _that_ part doesn’t sound great at all.”

“Which one?” It had all sounded pretty epic to Tam.

Win rolls up into a sitting position and mutters, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course. I’ll put right here in my pocket.”

Tam’s attempt at levity is not met with amusement. And, considering what his cousin has to say next, that’s completely understandable.

Win leans closer and whispers, “I received a letter just before we left the city.”

“And? What did it say?”

Win glances over his shoulder, scanning the grounds to ensure that they’re both still alone. He wipes his hand on the grass and reaches into his jacket. Without a word, he hands a large, cream-colored envelop to Tam who opens it warily.

Two carefully folded pages from a newspaper, yellowed nearly to brown with age, slide out first. He scans the first, reads something about a gentleman’s duel.

“Win... does this say _Uncle Hamish_ and your _father_ actually _dueled?_ ”

“No, actually, it _suggests_ that they might have.”

Tam continues gaping at him.

Win finally snorts with humor. “It _is_ hard to imagine, isn’t it? But look at the date.”

Tam does. “Oh, well, I guess eleven years ago, he wasn’t so...”

“Fat?”

He bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Win points to the next page. “Now that one.”

Tam obediently scans it until he sees what must have upset Win so much. “Oh...” In one small article, the death of Lord Marshall Manchester’s only son – Lowell Manchester – is recorded. “I’m sorry, Win.”

“Look at the date.”

Tam does so. And then, frowning, he checks the date on the other newspaper again. “Is this... _right?_ ”

“Yes. I went to the archives in town and checked them myself.”

Tam gapes. “But, that would mean that... I mean. Do you think Uncle Hamish...?”

“Read the note.”

Tam pulls it out of the envelope and flips open the cardstock.

Reads.

“When we go get back in the city, I’m going to talk to him,” Win announces.

Tam nods. “All right. But I’m coming with you.”

“But how are you going to convince your mother and father to let you stay in London?”

“It doesn’t matter. Do you really think I’ll let you go alone no matter what they say?”

His cousin slaps him on the back, a brave smile on his lips. “Good man.”

“The best,” Tam assures him. Yes, this looks like a task well-suited to Tamial Hightopp – investigator extraordinaire and champion to his Uplander cousin! He replaces the newspapers and note in the envelop and hands them back to Win. “Have you looked over the meeting place yet?”

“Why would I do that?”

Tam rolls eyes, abandons the uneaten hunk of sticky bread and stands. “Well, maybe I’m not a champion like my Mam, but even _I_ know you can’t just walk into a situation like this without knowing the terrain. That’s the first order of business!”

“But... we can’t very well go there _now_.”

“No, we can’t. But we can check a few maps, can’t we?” Tam grins and waggles his brows. Adventure, he decides, tastes _good._ “Let’s be off to the library!”

“And we’d better not let anyone catch us, or there’ll be questions!” Win warns him.

And as they race across the lawn, ignored by the servants and hired workers, Tam considers that note:

 __________________________________________________________

 

 _Clarges Street and Bolton E. off Piccadilly_

 _If you want to know the truth of your father’s death, come alone._

 __________________________________________________________

 

Despite his taste for Adventure, Tamial frowns. The Adventure he likes, but the message itself... He swallows back against the sour taste of something _bad_ in his throat. That hollow feeling in his stomach is back but he’s not hungry. It’s not a pleasant feeling. No. Not at all.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Mirana takes in the sight of her second eldest daughter – her short hair now colored a most unflattering brown; her lithe figure dressed in the common garb of an apprentice to an Outlandish tradesman – as she descends the stairs with a grubby pack slung over her shoulder and a wide smile stretching her lips.

Mirana takes in the sight of the young woman who is moments away from setting out on her own. She fists her hands in her dress to keep her panic and denial in check: it’s not supposed to happen this way! She and Alice had _prepared...!_ They’d _anticipated...!_ And yet, somehow, her daughter will be leaving home today on her first assignment. Her first task. Her first confrontation with Fates and whatever those fickle beings have planned for her.

 _It’s utterly unfair!_ she rages in silence. Her vows – her intentions which have always been of the purest sort! – mean nothing now. No, the Fates care not that Mirana has never harmed another living creature. Underland’s caretakers torment the White Queen with this sight!

Tarranya is going off to fight. Yes, Dale had assured her – and firmly reminded Tarra! – that there will be no battles. No swordplay. No bloodshed. But that does not mean there will be no danger! There are innumerable evils Out There that can slip past even the tightest defense and the sharpest sword!

“Who _is_ that?” Dale asks in a teasing tone that somehow rings with pride. He lays a paw on Mirana’s shoulder, reminds her of their conversation earlier:

 _“We knew this day would come, Mish’rya. For Tarra first and foremost among each of our loves.”_

 _“Yes, I know. She’s always been the most headstrong.”_

 _“I sometimes wonder if perhaps we should have named her for Champion Alice what with that stubbornness of hers...”_

 _“It might have been more fitting... Too late now.”_

 _“But, let us not dwell on what we are losing. We must consider what our daughter is gaining. We must let her go, my love. And, if it comes to it, we must let her fail. We cannot protect her forever.”_

Yes, Mirana knows this is true. It doesn’t help, however. Still, she does her best to manage a teasing reply. “I’m not sure. Perhaps we’d better summon the guards to deal with this infiltrator.”

Tarra barks out a laugh. “Go ahead, Your Majesty! I can take them down!”

She strikes a pose on the stairs and Mirana startles, noticing that _somehow_ a pair of wicked-looking knives have appeared in each of her daughter’s scarless hands.

No, her daughter has not yet earned any scars, not like Alice has.

Alice... Had Alice really been only a year Tarra’s senior when she’d become Mirana’s Champion? When Mirana had more or less _forced_ Alice to become her Champion? Had Mirana not sent McTwisp Up to lure her Under? Had she not more or less insinuated to Alice that the only way back to her world would be through the path that lead to a fearsome beast, a slaying, and the drinking of its cursed blood?

Her vocal chords twist until her breath whistles out of her. She will chastise herself for this later. Perhaps she will even ask Tarrant to suggest a proper punishment... Later. For now, her daughter demands her attention.

“You look like a common thug,” Alicibeth informs her twin.

Tarra struts down the remaining steps. “Thanks, Bethie. But now you’ve got me wondering: how many common thugs _have_ you seen?”

“Humph!”

Smirking, Tarra turns toward her brother. “Chestor, don’t go tearing up the pitch on Winsommer while I’m away or I’ll skin you with Thackery’s rusty carrot peeler.”

He cringes a bit before rallying. “You just try it, and we’ll see who gets hacked in the end.”

Tarra grins and ruffles his hair before he can bat her hands away. “Amallya,” she continues, regarding the Hatter’s apprentice. Mirana has sensed that the connection between these two has strengthened over the last two years as they’d both raised their voices and asserted themselves, presented themselves for their destinies with singular focus.

“I made you a hat,” Mirana’s third daughter says, revealing the accessory from where she’d been holding it behind her back. As always, Mirana examines her daughter’s hands for traces of mercury stains, but they are as pale and flawless as ever; the special gloves Tarrant had fashioned just for her daughter seem to be doing their job sufficiently.

Well, at least _one_ of her obstinate and independently-minded daughters will be spared the hardships of her chosen profession!

“I love it, Ama. Here, what do you think?” she asks, modeling it.

“You suit it just fine,” Amallya informs her. “Even with that dreadful hair dye.”

“It’s the color of manure,” Leivlan informs her.

Dalerian smirks. “Should have told us you wanted dye made from excrement. We could have asked the Bandersnatch for a contribution and then you’d be aromatic, too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tarra teases back. “I know exactly who to go to for some good shukm. Know the ins and outs of it, do you boys?”

“Ew,” Thacie groans. “I just _ate!_ ”

“Sorry, Thrasher.”

“That’s not my name and you know it.”

“Yes, I definitely do... _Thrasher_.”

“Well,” Mirana says, judging this to be the optimal moment to interrupt. Before Tarra ends up having to _fight_ her way to the front door and the Outlander waiting patiently beside it to take her to Crimson Harbor. “Now that you’ve offended most of your family...”

“Yes, time to be off!” Tarra pivots on her heel and takes a step toward the door. “Maybe I’ll bring you back some nice, cured eel snout for a treat!”

“Ugh, _gross!_ ” Thacie objects as Alicibeth sniffs contemptuously. Chestor makes a face, Amallya continues gazing dreamily up at the ceiling as if watching a vision of her next creation flutter and float down from the rafters. The twin boys grin.

“Go on,” Ian says.

“We dare you,” Lanny interjects.

“We’ll put them to _good_ use.”

And _that_ is surely a thought that will keep Mirana up at night! She tugs on Dale’s arm and the two of them follow after Tarra, escorting her through the hall and out onto the castle steps.

“You’re going to hug me, aren’t you?” Tarra mumbles. “Out here in front of _everybody_.”

“Of course. I _am_ your mother.” She makes a show of looking around, shading her tearing eyes from the early morning sun. “And _I_ don’t seen anyone watching us. Just you, me, your father, and the trees.”

“And I’d bet a half batch of Upelkuchen on which ones are the gossips of the lot,” Tarra grumbles, glaring at the tranquil sea of blossoming trees.

Mirana pulls her daughter into her arms and Holds On. “No heroine-ics, you hear me?” she rasps into Tarra’s ear. “You find out what you need to and come _home._ ”

She nearly sobs when she feels Tarra gently pat her back. “You’re awfully authoritative. One might even think you’re a queen or something by the way you act.”

“Hah!” Mirana laughs. “I’m afraid I’m much worse; I’m a mother.”

“Give me a dragon to slay any day.”

“All right, all right, my fair ladies! It’s not polite to share affection in public unless you’ve enough for _everyone_ ,” Dale teases and wraps his long, heavy, pelted arms around them both.

“You’re both acting ridiculous,” Tarra informs them. “I’ll be fine and I’ll be back before you know it!”

Despite her daughter’s confident tone and brazen grin, Mirana shivers.

A throat clears and Mirana turns to see Master Setteeson approaching. “I d’nae wish tae b’ a-gimblin’ in, bu’ if’n we’re teh make th’ ‘Arbor afore dusk, we’d best b’ a-trekkin’.”

“Of course,” Mirana replies. “Of course.”

Her hands shake as she releases her daughter.

 _Dear Fates..._ Mirana can hardly believe that this moment has arrived. Her child is about to walk out into the wide world and she is she merely going to stand here and _do nothing?!_

Dale wraps an arm around her waist – to hold her up or restrain her from running after Tarra and dragging her bodily back to the castle, she’s not sure.

“Stay safe, Squimkin. Don’t give us reason to worry,” he says as Mirana struggles with herself, her panic, her dread, her useless tongue and inflamed heart.

“I’ll be just fine.” She tilts her chin and adjusts her new hat to a rakish angle. “And I’m going to give you both a reason to be proud of me.”

“We already are, you silly berry,” her father answers, chucking her under her chin.

“Master Setteeson! I’m mightae humblin’ fer th’delayin’. Off we b’ a-trekkin’ nauw?” Tarra asks in a startlingly authentic rendition of Outlandish.

The bearded and bellied mad chuckles. “Aye, off we be. Yer Majesty.”

Mirana manages a nod of acknowledgement in his direction and then watches as they turn to go. Tarra takes two steps down the stairs before Mirana suddenly realizes that someone is _missing!_

“Wait! We must inform Champion Leif that you’re leaving!”

Tarra pauses on the steps but doesn’t turn. Her right hand fists and Mirana watches as she takes a deep, controlled breath. When her daughter turns, whatever emotion that had been evoked by the mention of her long-time friend is gone.

“It’s all right, mother. We’ve already said our good-byes.”

And then she jogs down the steps and catches up with the man Mirana is entrusting with her daughter’s care. It’s not until the two of them have gathered up their packs, convinced Setteeson’s grumpy donkey to consent to pull the cart, and have disappeared beyond the far gate that Mirana recognizes the odd, uncomfortable resonance vibrating in her chest.

 _“We’ve already said our good-byes.”_

She’s heard that before.

And, in a rush of epiphany, remembers when and where!

Why, those words had been spoken _here._ Twenty years ago, by another Champion setting out on a quest. And those very words had been spoken with regards to that Champion’s future lover.

Mirana remembers: frighteningly similar words had been spoken shortly before Alice had galumphed off to meet the Jabberwocky for the Trial of Threes.

Dear Fates, she begs, let this _not_ be a premonition.

 _Let me have made the correct decision_ _**this** _ _time!_

Of course, there is no answer. Not yet. For this, she must wait for Time to answer her plea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The opening scene of this chapter was inspired by a beautiful piece of AiW (2010) fanart by LJ user **clarice1682** called ["Sweet Dreams"](http://clarice1682.livejournal.com/1736.html).
> 
> 2\. The memory Mirana recalls is from OPK: Book 1, Chapter Seven: The Trial of Threes.


	3. Sisterly Advice, Brotherly Differences

“So, _Lady_ Hightopp, how goes your new life?” Margaret asks with a smile reminiscent of the one Alice had been given at _another_ party that had been held at the Ascot family’s countryside manor. Yes, Alice knows that smile. That’s the _I-know-you’re-thrilled!_ smile. Well. It was monumentally misplaced _then…_ just as it is now.

Alice bites back a sigh. “It goes.”

Margaret wraps an arm around Alice’s waist and gives her a brief, brusque embrace. “Mother would be so proud.”

Yes, that is true. Every time Alice had visited for tea, their mother had worried – usually in eloquent silence – over Alice’s occupation. “I almost wish she were here to gloat,” she replies.

“For shame, Alice,” Margaret scolds her gently with a sad smile. “A well-bred lady never gloats.”

“Hah. Tell that to your mother-in-law.”

“Once upon a time, I was very tempted to! But she hasn’t been the same since...”

The sigh she’d stubbornly held back escapes Alice. “I miss him. This world isn’t the same without him.”

“No, it isn’t,” Margaret agrees. “It’s hard on Hamish as well. After the duel, they grew quite close. I imagine Townsend was as thrilled by his son’s manly display of idiocy as Geraldine was scandalized by it.”

“A scandalized Geraldine Ascot,” Alice muses. “Now, _that_ I am sorry I missed.”

“You shouldn’t be!” Margaret hisses even as she smiles out across the milling assortment of predictably civilized, wine-swilling party guests.

Alice shakes her head at her. “Unbelievable,” Alice tells her.

“What is?”

“How much this life suits you. Are you sure we’re of the same flesh and blood?”

“Not at all. Perhaps my real sister was switched with you? Tell me, are there any uncommonly sensible women in this land of yours?”

“Not a single one. We’re all mad there.”

Nodding toward the scene of an impromptu picnic just to the side of the gazebo, Margaret argues, “But not Tamial. He’s got a level head on his shoulders.”

Alice has to bite her lip to keep from informing her sister that – in the frenzy of Futterwhacken – even _that_ is subject to change. Although... Tam’s head _has_ been level for quite some time now. In fact, the last clear memory she has of his Futterwhacken had been the day she’d learned of Tarra and Leif’s will-be marriage, the day Alice had invited Mirana to take tea at the hat workshop with Tarrant and Amallya... nearly a year ago. “He’s simply better at adapting,” she insists both in defense of his innate Underlandian madness and in denial of her son’s lingering depression.

“Hm. Still, he and Winslow have always seemed to get along well enough. It’s hard to believe Tamial’s two years his junior.”

Alice bites back yet another sigh. “Actually, he’s come into young adulthood, or the _Midlin’ Mark_ as Tarrant’s people call it. He’s thirteen.”

Margaret frowns. “But... Alice... he was born _eleven_ years ago.”

“I’m not debating that.” And she knows she _can’t_. Time has been kept regular over the years with the aid of the small correspondence mirrors which have remained open, providing a connection between Up and Under. After the Oraculum had once again unrolled, after Alice and Tarrant had ensured Underland’s safety and continued future, after Tam had been born and their reasons for remaining in London exhausted, there had been no reason to retire those small, silver mirrors from Official use. Alice had kept one and so had her mother. _Now_ , however, that mirror is in Margaret’s possession and has been for nearly four years.

So, yes, eleven years _have_ passed – equally! – in Upland and Underland. Tam _should_ be just entering his Age of Consideration. He _should_ be just old enough to choose a trade for himself. He _should_ be. But he isn’t.

“It’s not fair that he’s grown up so suddenly,” Alice replies. “I don’t like it, but there’s nothing to be done about it.”

And she’d asked. Many times. She’d very nearly hunted down Time himself to demand he return those lost years to Tamial, to her and Tarrant. Of course, that would have only compounded the issue.

“Time has a frightful temper, Alice,” Tarrant had said, his arms firmly wrapped around her waist even as she’d struggled. “And he’ll not be forgetting just _whose_ son Tamial is.”

Alice had cursed at that.

“That’s the last time we let Thackery watch Tam!”

Yes, one romantic bedtime story about the occasion during which Tam’s father had killed Time in order to wait for the arrival of the White Queen’s Champion had led to an absolute disaster. The very next day, drunk on Chivalry, Tam – with his cohorts Ian and Lanny – had _chased down_ Time. Tam had been the only one fast enough to keep up and, before he’d known it, Time had taken Flight and two entire years had sped by him.

Mirana had once explained to Alice that although adults in Underland merely reflect the age they feel – a rather simple system all around – the growth of children in Underland is determined by quite a lot of factors: the steadiness and pace of their education; the expectations of their parents; their minds which seem to develop much less gradually than those of Upland children, lurching forward – and sometimes backwards! – in years in fits and starts; and also, there’s the child’s _desire_ or motivation to become a grown up. Tam, however, had found the _one_ exception to the natural order of things: he’d provoked Time.

Like incorrigible father, like equally incorrigible son.

Alice fears there will be a Grudge now between the Hightopps and Time that will last until the end of Underland. To make it official, perhaps Alice ought to give the fellow a good smack across his ever-changing face!

She regards her son and mourns for those lost years: he’d been ten years old one day, and then twelve the next. Neither she nor Tarrant had felt additional punishment was necessary for the utter idiocy of meddling with Time. The facts of life had been more than sufficient in severity:

“You’re going to have to choose a trade,” Tarrant had explained to him firmly over high tea the day after the incident. “And you’ll have to decide sooner than expected.”

“But I can’t help it if I’m twelve now!”

“’Twas yer own folly tha’ brought ye teh this age ye’re at, an’ there’s no undoin’ it once Time’s had his way wi’ye.” Because Alice knows her husband inside and out, because he had made no effort at all to dampen the emotions within his heart, she had seen and Felt his regret. “’Tis tae late fer ye teh be-make yerself inteh a baker ‘r a loomsmith...”

“I don’t _want_ to bake bread or make carpets!”

Which had been just as well. Tam had grown too big, too _set in his ways_ , as Tarrant had explained it, for any _reputable_ master of those crafts to take him on, to awaken, to mold and polish his Intuition in the intricacies of those particular trades.

They’d hashed out their son’s remaining options: furniture maker, haberdasher, glass smith, mason, and – reluctantly – they’d suggested the life of a soldier for the White Queen! Tarrant had even swallowed his pride and offered to speak to the Irondirks about taking Tam on as a steelsmith.

Their son had refused them all.

Later that evening, as Tarrant had curled his body around hers in their bed at Mamoreal, he’d sighed out, “’Tis retribution. I was this difficult wi’ me own Fa. Only ra’her than tryin’ teh talk me _in teh_ a trade, he was doin’ his best teh talk me _out_ o’th’ one I’d chosen.”

 _The poor man,_ Alice had thought, imagining the very scene Tarrant had described. However, she’d chosen to say instead, “It’s a difficult age and he’s come into it so suddenly and unexpectedly. And the expectations on him are greater now than ever before. Give him some time. He’ll sort it out.”

But Tamial is most definitely _not_ sorting it out. His thirteen years weigh on him like an ill-fitting suit.

“Nothing to be done about it,” she repeats, pulling herself back to the present: back to her sister and brother-in-law’s tenth wedding anniversary party.

Margaret sighs. “Sometimes you have nothing but utter nonsense to say, Alice.”

“I know.” But she doesn’t apologize for it. What would be the point? Nonsense is such an unavoidable part of her life that she’s better off accepting it and moving onward.

“Some things never change,” Margaret murmurs with a wistful sigh. “Here we are, so many years later, and I _still_ envy you, little sister.”

“I... wha... I beg your pardon?”

Margaret actually giggles as her sister’s obviously flabbergasted expression. “Have you any notion of how _exciting_ I imagine it is to start a new _town?_ Have you really _thought_ about it, Alice? Those people are _your_ people. They depend on you and Tarrant completely.”

“Oh. It’s a marvelous responsibility,” Alice hears herself intone.

Margaret clucks her tongue at her. “For shame, Alice. You’ve spent years in the service of your queen as her Champion. And now here you have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to champion a whole _town!_ ”

“I...”

“Darling, _here_ you are!”

Alice startles as Hamish – with Tarrant in tow – strides over. She marvels at how – despite her brother-in-law’s increased weight which is surely indicative of wedded bliss and professional success – he still manages to move as purposefully as ever.

“They’re ready for us to lead the dancing,” he tells her, offering his arm. “Alice,” he greets her with a nod. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Quite. Thank you for the invitation.” Somehow, the words come out despite her shock at Margaret’s observation and her own dawning shame.

“We’ll see you both on the dance floor,” Margaret says with a wink as Hamish sweeps her toward the lit wooden platform. Yes, the words had been spoken in the format of an invitation, but Alice hears the underlying instruction. Suddenly, she smiles: there are some things that _will never_ change. Her sister’s bossiness for one... and Alice’s role as a Champion for another. Even if the cause for which she fights _does_ change.

  
_Margaret is right._

Alice shakes her head and sighs.

Tarrant moves to stand next to her here beside the looming hedges. “They make an uncommonly well-matched pair, do they not?” he murmurs, offering her a glass of wine and a curious glance; she knows he can feel the echo of her jumbled emotions churning over and around his own heart.

“Frightfully so,” she answers with a smirk and decides – _firmly_ – to enjoy the party _now_ and ponder _later_.

Her gaze darts in the direction of the nighttime picnic being held by their son and his cousin. “Those two as well.”

“Hm. Yes.” Tarrant’s brows draw together in a frown. “I suppose the answer to the question we’ll undoubtedly be asked before we leave on the morrow must be ‘No’.”

Alice sighs. “I’m afraid so.” Undoubtedly, Tam will ask to stay here in Upland for a while longer. Unfortunately, to allow him to do so would merely encourage him to continue avoiding the decision he must make... _soon_. “He cannot start hiding from his problems.”

“Although... I recall a time when that had been the wisest course of action.”

“Luckily, we don’t have a Red Queen to worry about these days.”

“Luck or the Oraculum?” he muses aloud.

“Perhaps both,” Alice admits. “But mostly the Oraculum.” She glances at him and answers the question that raises both of his wild brows. “I’m not sure I could have put on the armor in the first place if not for the fact that my success had already been guaranteed.”

“Alice...”

“Yes. If I had known _then_ what I know _now_ about the Oraculum... things very likely would have turned out... differently.”

“Badly.”

She doesn’t disagree. The Oraculum _is_ an oracle, true. But it shows what the denizens of Underland _need_ to see in order to stay on the path the Fates have chosen for their world. Tarrant had uneasily told her this when she’d explained why she’d been so obsessed with timing the birth of their son as carefully as possible.

“Alice, the Oraculum is a _guide._ Why else would it show us your... defeat at the Trial of Threes and the destruction of Mamoreal if not to _warn_ the queen that she had taken the wrong path?”

She had regarded his anxious, yellow-green eyes and pointed out: “The Oraculum also showed that I would be the one to defeat the Jabberwocky in the first place. Are you saying that was a self-fulfilling prophecy? My belief in its inevitability made it so?”

“That is the world we live in, Raven.”

Alice had had to bite her tongue against cursing the Fates aloud.

“If... that is, if you would rather not create a child _here_... I mean, if you do not feel it would be _safe..._ ”

“Tarrant.”

“Yes?”

“Do _you_ have any doubts?”

“... There are always doubts.”

“Then sit down and confide them in me. Please.”

He had. And then they had set a date for the Ritual of Conception. Before _that_ memory can drag her into its depths, Alice lifts her glass and takes a sip.

“You’re very distractable tonight,” Tarrant observes.

“Intentionally. My experiences at Ascot parties are... mixed.” And, considering Margaret’s unerringly precise remarks only minutes ago, tonight is no exception.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Hamish proposed in that gazebo there...” she informs him, gesturing with her wine glass.

“Did he?”

“Right before I followed a very peevish-looking white rabbit into the forest and then took a tumble down a hole.”

“Ah, yes. Those questions that needed answering.”

She doesn’t refute the assumption. “And of course you remember the last... occasion we attended an event here.”

“... I do.”

Alice lays a hand on his arm. “I miss him. Townsend.”

Tarrant gives Alice a brief, sad smile. Her heart line warms with thanks at the distraction. She knows now what he had experienced that night; one afternoon, on a balcony overlooking the castle gardens, as they had watched Tam playing hide-and-seek with Mirana’s twin boys, he had told her.

“You came looking for me... And Valereth ran you through.”

For a moment, she hadn’t understood what he’d been talking about. She’d turned to him and he’d replied even before she’d spoken.

“You told me to drink, to move through time.” He’d looked at her then, showing her the pain in his eyes that he’d been holding onto so tightly she hadn’t felt it through their heart line. “I did.”

“Yes,” she’d answered, at last understanding. “You did. Thank you.”

She does not know the details of that night and the events that had prompted the use of the Jabberwocky’s blood, but she knows _enough._ Enough to distract him from the memory.

“Lord Ascot was an uncommonly Underlandish Uplander,” Tarrant observes.

Alice smiles. “He was. I believe knowing my father made him so. I wish you could have met him as well.”

“It would have been an honor,” he agrees. “But I am happy to have met your mother. You do her credit, you know. It is from her you draw much of your Muchness.”

Alice startles and looks up at his knowing expression. “I... you’re right. She was rather... muchy, wasn’t she?”

“And I’m sure she still is, my Alice.”

Grinning, Alice blinks back her tears. “As usual, you are right.”

“ _We_ are right,” he gently corrects her, taking her wine glass and setting it aside on a nearby table before offering her his arm. “We are right for each other and no one else.”

Alice damns social convention and presses a kiss to the corner of his softly smiling mouth as he leads her toward the lighted stage and the couple waltzing gracefully upon it. They follow Hamish and Margaret’s lead, but it is not a London waltz they perform despite their evening of practicing the night before. No, if a Champion and a Hatter cannot dance to a different tune, they can at least choose different steps.

Margaret sees this and shakes her head, smiling.

Hamish sniffs and rolls his eyes tolerantly.

The song doesn’t quite match the rhythm of the steps of the Waltz of the Tumtum Tree, but that’s fine.

Emboldened, more couples join the stage to dance, to celebrate, to live.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“An’ jus’ _where_ d’ye think _ye’re_ goin’, laddie?”

 _Damn it,_ Leif swears: he’d successfully dodged the jabberwockies that have been hanging around since the annual Pick-a-Therry looking for lost and misplaced bushels of Thrambleberries, but he’d completely forgotten about Thackery!

“Out for a picnic,” he quips, explaining away the bundle of provisions he’s in the process of... _borrowing_ from the March Hare’s stores.

“No picnics planned fer t’day!” the hare asserts, his eyes googling and whiskers twitching. “Gi’me ano’her one!”

“Another what?”

“ _Excuse!_ ” Thackery shouts and Leif winces as the percussive force of it is amplified by the kitchen’s white, stone walls.

“Why bother?” he grumbles, knowing it’s useless to argue with the creature.

He heads for the door and Thackery clamors after him, a cutting board clutched before his skinny chest like a shield. “B’cause th’lass is yer o’her half, ye daft Shucher!” Thackery declares in response to the rhetorical question.

Paw on the kitchen door, Leif pauses. “I beg your pardon... _What?!_ ”

“Oh, aye, I’ve seen it!” the hare asserts with a shudder that had probably been intended to be a sagely nod. “Ye’re goin’ afteh yer missus. Aye. Aye. _Bad_ idea, that. ‘Twould be better served teh kill Time! More romantic, ay’ways!”

Leif leans over the hare who shivers and quivers but doesn’t cower. “I am _not_ going to sit around with my tail in my hands _waiting_ for Tarra to get herself hurt.”

“Sae _ye’ll_ b’th’ one teh do it, eh!” Thackery points an accusatory, furry digit at him. “It won’ mend! Once tha’ strut’s been gimped... won’ mend!”

“ _What_ won’t mend?” Leif demands despite his better sense telling him to just get _on_ with things.

“Strut!!” Thackery asserts.

Leif turns back toward the door.

The March Hare _grabs his_ _ **tail!**_

“ _Trust!!_ ” Thackery shouts with a hard yank. “Trust, ye loaf-headed long-tail! Strut, trust, all four th’ same an’ one repeated makes five. Aye, aye, jus’ ano’her way o’ speakin’ it!”

When Leif jerks his tail out from the hare’s grasp, Thackery dives for the cutting board he’d dropped. Scowling, Leif accuses him, “You aren’t normally this incomprehensible.”

“Well, ye don’ jus’ say sommat important straight _out!_ ” he declares. “Got teh go ‘round a bit, ye ken. ‘Tis more polite, aye?”

Leif sighs. With a rueful shake of his head, he pushes open the door.

“Ye’re missus won’ b’ likin’ this a’tall! Nae, nae, no’ta’tall! Kill Time, I say!”

The door shuts. Despite that, Leif can still hear the hare’s unsolicited advice, though it is muffled:

“’Tis what she expects! No’ a cuttin’!”

Leif takes two strides down the hall before a wistful sigh of “... _board_...” resonates through the painted, wooden door. He feels his lips twist into a cynical grin: the hare doesn’t even know what he’s talking about. The thought is both humorous and comforting.

He returns to his rooms and places the provisions he’d collected from the pantry in his travel bag. Hoisting it over his shoulder, he reaches for his scimitar...

And frowns; Leif’s paw hovers over empty air where his sword _should_ be held aloft by its stand.

“Now, _why_ would you be looking for this, cousin?”

Leif turns and regards his king, who stands examining Leif’s scimitar in the doorway just off the common room of Leif’s apartment.

King Dale continues, “You have food and water packed. Perhaps you’ll go for a trek today? Picnic on one of the mountaintops around Mamoreal? If that’s the case, you certainly won’t need _this._ ”

Leif glares.

Dale smiles. “No? Well, you’ve also packed a cloak meant to conceal the wearer and shabby clothing. You’ll be visiting a Grobben Pub, then? Still, I would think a knife would be better in that case than a sword.”

Mute, Leif holds out his paw for the weapon.

Dale does not give it to him. “I have only to demand that you tell me what you’re planning and you will confess all,” he reminds his Champion and, not for the first time, Leif wishes Dale weren’t quite _so_ skilled at being an absolute _brat_ of a cub when it suits him.

“But we both know what you’re going to do, don’t we?” the king replies. “She won’t understand, Leif. Nor will she tolerate this.”

“I know.”

Dale shakes his head. “If I, her _father_ , can find the strength to let her go, why can’t you?”

Leif swallows. He does not want to answer that. His First Claw feels unnaturally heavy against his chest. He resists reaching for it, glancing down at it, and yet Dale’s golden eyes lower and add weight to the pendant.

He struggles to ignore the niggling thought in his mind, the stirring in his soul, the _knowing_ that his First Claw has already been claimed. But no. _No!_ He will. Not. Think. It! He has kept this terrible secret for so long... he will _not reveal it now!_ He reminds himself that Tarra is not... not... She is not for him. He does not want her. She is Royalty. His cousin’s daughter. A mere girl...

No.

The thought of his First Claw in her possession turns his stomach even as it makes his pulse race. He fights the rush of dizziness.

Leif measures the moment in breaths, in frantic heartbeats. And when his liege once again raises his gaze, Leif can see hostility – or something very much like it – in the king’s eyes. “My daughter?” he confirms. “Tarranya?”

He wishes he could deny the suspicion that the king asserts. He wishes his own heartbeat and breaths and the scent of his anxiety were not capable of betraying him. But of course they can; they _have._ His cousin has heard, seen, and smelled...

The only comfort Leif can give the father of the girl his soul has Chosen is this: “I have no interest in her.”

Dale takes a step closer, examining Leif who battles against the urge to step back. “When I met Mirana, it was this way for me,” he rumbles, the words are both reluctantly spoken and shaped into a warning. “ _I_ did not fight it, as you do.”

“It should be fought,” Leif replies. He bites his tongue to stop the assertions there. Surely, Dale _knows_ the rest: she is a princess; she is too young; she is a kinsman’s daughter; she is not for him.

“You are an idiot,” the king informs him, “if you think she has not _sensed_ this already. You are a fool if you think she accepted this task without a thought to winning your approval.” Dale regards him, weighs him. “So many things are clear now. Her drive to be Alice’s equal – _your_ equal. You told me once: that is the only kind of mate you would ever consider. She has _changed_ herself to fit _you._ ”

The observation leaves Leif feeling physically ill. He has to force himself to not close his eyes, to not turn away, to not press his paws to his ears.

And Dale is not yet finished:

“It began years ago,” he muses unhappily in a considering tone, speaking as his epiphany plays out. “Perhaps even the first time she saw you training with Alice. Saw, and something in her _knew_ she would have to become a Champion. For you.”

Leif clenches his jaw shut to keep himself from arguing. He mustn’t. He _knows_ he mustn’t. He is a Champion – it is not his place to argue with the king.

But he _burns_ to!

Dale holds out the sword.

“Do what you must for your own peace of mind but _do not_ shake her confidence. And you might consider the fact that your reluctance to yield to her – your unwillingness to set aside your own pride – has driven her to this. If you had accepted her for who she truly is...”

Thankfully, the king does not finish his sentence. He does not finish laying the blame upon Leif’s shoulders. It teeters, clings. There is the smallest chance that Leif will find a way to shed it before it settles in place and crushes him.

“And you’re not going alone,” the King announces. “Take Mallymkun and Bayto with you. You’ll need her size and his nose.”

“Sire, I don’t need—”

“Tarra does. She needs to do this _alone_. If she sees you, you will damage more than her warrior’s pride.” Dale shakes his head, a hard look in his eyes. “I will not permit it. I want my daughter to return home safe and _whole_.”

“She will,” he swears, accepting his sword from the king’s grasp. “I’ll see to it, even if she never sees me.”

“Make sure that she doesn’t, Champion Leif. _Make sure_ she doesn’t.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tarrant can’t help but giggle at the sight of the utter _bliss_ on Hamish’s face as the man takes his first sip of Hightopp-brewed tea.

“I don’t know how you manage it, my odd friend, but you make the best tea I’ve ever had.”

“It’s the borogove toenails,” he replies cheerfully, wishing Alice were sitting next to him here in the Ascot Manor Conservatory to share the joke.

Hamish holds up a hand. “Say no more, I beg you. I shall pretend you said something reasonable and continue enjoying my morning tea.”

“By all means.”

Tarrant idly wonders what could be taking Alice so long. Surely, assisting her sister with getting Elaine and Townley ready for the day will not take _much_ longer... And both Tam and Win _should_ be awake by now...

“Have you time this coming Thursday to come through for a trip to the club?” Hamish wonders aloud.

“I’m afraid not. Alice and I are required at court to tend to our apprentices.”

“Ah, yes. They do require tending, don’t they?” Hamish heaves a great, put-upon sigh.

“A shortage of useful minds at the company?” Tarrant summarizes.

“A dearth,” Hamish agrees. “A veritable _void._ ”

Tarrant muses, “What might be the reason Winslow isn’t apprenticing with you yet? He is of age, is he not?” From Hamish’s scandalized expression, Tarrant infers: “Ah, perhaps not. That must be a custom unique to...”

“Yes, that mad _nameless_ place you and Alice insist on dwelling in, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Quite. Although why you sound so jealous I’ve no idea.” Tarrant smirks.

Hamish sips noisily at his tea. “How’s Tamial doing with that small matter of the fate of his future?”

Tarrant giggles at his friend’s snark. “If Alice’s sister ever saw you like this, she’d consider it a mercy to permit you a bit of posing with those not-swords.”

“God above, Tarrant. They are called _foils._ ”

Tarrant just grins.

At that moment, two blurs of motion race past the conservatory windows. Tarrant twitches and Hamish’s gaze flickers toward the wall of gauzily curtained windows as two thirteen-year-old boys thunder by.

“Two little lords in a lark,” Hamish remarks proudly.

Tarrant frowns and then considers those words until he gives it up as incomprehensible Hamish Speak. Reluctantly, he allows, “Tam _will_ be a laird, one day, I suppose... Although he hasn’t much interest in it at the moment, honestly. Nor did I at his age. Perfectly normal. Better things to do. Including selecting a trade for himself.”

“A trade!” Hamish sniffs.

“Aye. They tend to be a mite useful from time to time.” Yes, his hatting skills have been quite useful in distracting the Red Queen from her quest for the wee lad, Alice, hadn’t they?

“Useful for what, I ask you!” Hamish rallies with considerable bluster. “Have you given _no_ thought to training your son to take over management of the family estate?”

“Goodness, no! Why-ever would we do a thing like that when it’s the boy’s _instincts_ that require development? However can a person be expected to manage a village if he cannot manage his own hands? His own mind?”

“That didn’t stop _you_ , apparently,” Hamish mutters from behind his teacup.

Tarrant ignores that and concludes his highly _sensible_ explanation: “No, no. A trade is very necessary where I come from, Ascot. Quite necessary.”

“Hm. How is the next Royal Hatter coming along?”

“Splendidly!” Tarrant’s eyes unfocus with pride. “She did _very_ well when she chose her trade. Why, her instincts almost shape themselves!” Even _he_ hadn’t taken to the craft so effortlessly. Why, in another year or so, he doubts his services will be required at Mamoreal at all! Not even for the trickiest and most conspicuous or unique of hats! Which reminds him... he mustn’t forget to take the orders he’d assigned himself with him when they go back to Mamoreal... And that blasted Cat had better not have taken them out of their boxes and played with them! Oh, brangergain i’tall, he’d _known_ he’d forgotten _something!_

_Aye, like a warning teh tha’ slurvish Cat teh keep his paws off th’ hats?_

Yes. Something _exactly_ like that!

“It’s quite nice when an apprentice takes to one’s trade so effortlessly,” Hamish remarks, pulling Tarrant’s attention away from the thought of painstakingly picking invisible cat hair off of custom hats and bringing it back around to the subject at hand. Or rather: the subject at tea.

“Ah, yes. The _void_ you mentioned.”

“Indeed. I’m hoping Townley will suit the business when his time comes.”

“What of Winslow?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, as Lord Manchester’s only grandson he’ll be expected to go into that family business.” Hamish frowns into his nearly empty teacup, either lamenting the loss of his beverage or his adopted son’s future. Or both. “The boy’s not terribly taken with the thought of making pots and pans and tea kettles.”

“Which is a shame, truly. They’re all absolutely lovely instruments,” Tarrant observes. “Although perhaps one cannot be overly imaginative in their creation and development.” Yes, Tarrant feels he’s quite lucky to have chosen a trade that allows him such room for experimentation. While all pans and cookery utensils of the sort must be round, the same is thankfully _not_ true of hats!

“Still, he’s a smart lad,” Hamish asserts, enjoying his own moment of pride-ish behavior. “I’m sure he’ll find a way around the obligation when the time comes. If he doesn’t take to it, of course. He may yet surprise himself by enjoying it.”

Tarrant’s lips twitch as he thinks of all the lovely racket Thackery and the queen’s children had once made in the castle kitchens with pots and pans and tea kettles. “Perhaps it is not the product itself but the application he may endeavor to enliven,” he suggests.

Hamish raises a brow at that. “None of your mad ideas, now, Hightopp. Winslow gets into quite enough mischief as it is these days. Why, just the day before we left the city, he disappeared for two hours! Two hours! When we asked where he’d gone, he told us he’d been at the library!” Hamish huffs. “I sent the butler around to confirm.”

“And did he?”

“Go to the library?”

“Confirm it?”

“Well, yes. On both counts. Which was what made it so strange. Winslow has _never_ gone to the library of his own volition.”

“Well, as Alice constantly reminds me – despite the fact I most certainly have _not_ forgotten! – this _is_ a bothersome age for boys. The changes and such.”

Hamish snorts. “True. I suppose a bit of oddness can be expected.” The man then gives Tarrant an anxious once-over. “He’d better outgrow it, however!”

Tarrant giggles. “And here Alice and I are still trying to get Tam to grow _into_ his!”

“That sort of remark is _not_ going to encourage me to pass on Winslow’s request,” Hamish grumbles, giving in to temptation and reaching for the teapot despite the fact that Alice and Margaret and the children have still not made an appearance at the brunch table yet.

“A request? Of me?”

“Yes. He asked me if he might borrow Tam for a few days.”

“Well... this is unexpected.”

Hamish sets about fixing his tea to perfection. “Still... Winslow impressed upon me the difficulties Tamial is experiencing with regards to the selection of a trade. Thought perhaps it might do the lad good to see another way of doing things. Broaden his mind.”

Tarrant glowers. The gesture is lost on Hamish as he measures cream into his tea. “The broadening of a mind is a very serious thing. A head can only take so much, you know.”

Hamish glances at him. “Still, it can’t hurt.”

“A too-broad mind? It sounds _excruciating_ , in all honesty.”

“Still, I’m passing along Winslow’s request.”

Tarrant’s glower renews. “Yes, I noticed. A request Alice and I anticipated coming from Tam. Not from _you._ ”

“Ah. Winslow did his work well, didn’t he? Converting me to his point of view. I’m sure there’s a promising business man in that boy somewhere, waiting for his day to come.” Hamish smirks. “They _do_ learn fast, don’t they?”

Tarrant feels rather disquieted by that observation, but Hamish merely replaces the spoon in the sugar bowl and stirs his tea. “Frightfully fast,” Tarrant numbly agrees. Indeed, whose unsettlingly _brilliant_ idea had it been to have their request posed by a man Tarrant considers a friend and equal? (...well, an equal in _most_ things. Haberdashery is obviously not one of them!)

“Well, should you decide to permit your son to visit for a bit, I would have no objections.”

“I’m afraid we shall have to decline,” Tarrant replies unhappily.

“As you wish. The offer remains open. Perhaps Tamial might find something worthwhile to do with himself here if life in your country doesn’t suit him. Considering Alice’s inclination to... live abroad, it’s only _logical_ that Tamial might require a similar... choice in the matter.”

Tarrant’s first thought is to accuse Hamish of trying to finagle the means of looking glass travel out of Tam. It would undoubtedly make the trading business... speedier. However, he merely says, “Yes, yes. That _is_ an option Alice and I have discussed. Perhaps after he’s located a bit more of himself he’ll be ready. Or _we’ll_ be ready. Yes, I believe that’s what I meant to say.”

Hamish snorts. “I find myself in agreement with you on that point. It’ll do no good to let Tamial go if _you’re_ not ready.”

Tarrant sighs. “So you _are_ capable of being reasonable! And to think, it’s only taken eleven years for this momentous event to occur. Perhaps Alice chose this as one of her six impossible things today...” He resolves to confirm that very fact with her as soon as possible!

Before Hamish can snap out a rebuttal, the Conservatory door opens and admits the very person Tarrant most wishes to see.

“Alice! Is everyone laced up, buttoned in, and properly stockinged for the day?”

She grins and hangs back as Margaret herds her two youngest children towards the table. Lee starts prattling about shoes that had gone for a walk by themselves and had hidden on top of the armoire and how in the world had they managed to get up there and wasn’t it lucky Auntie Alice thought to look for them there because she says that sometimes things without a pair of feet of their own can _fly...!_

Tarrant giggles and his grin widens. Alice puts a bit of a swagger into her walk, making her long skirts sway.

“Laced? Oh, yes. Buttons? Thoroughly buttoned. Stockings?” Alice’s gaze falls toward her own skirts and Tarrant giggles. “ _Properly_ stockinged? Well, who’s to say what is _proper?_ ”

Tarrant hopes he’ll be the one who investigates that issue _thoroughly_ just as soon as circumstances permit. His hands twitch toward his smirking, sashaying wife but he – manfully! – refrains from pulling her over his knees and into his lap. However, there is _one_ matter he can address quite effectively in their current company:

“Alice, by any chance did you include an uncharacteristically sensible Hamish in your List this morning?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. So now we know why Tam is 2 years older than he ought to be. Those Hightopp Boys and Time... *shakes head*
> 
> 2\. Also, I’d like to highlight the point I mentioned about the pair of Correspondence Mirrors. Alice and Mirana used them in Book 3 to communicate while Alice and Tarrant were in London (and, later, Thackery sent spinach puffs through them) but now Alice and her sister use them to keep in touch. They have remained open continuously so time in Upland is equal to time in Underland (from the time Tam was born through the present). Just something to keep in mind as the story progresses.


	4. Playing at Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is **rated M** for non-explicit sexual situations.

 

By the end of the very first day of her assignment, Mally has acquired a notion. A very _violent_ notion. And it has to do _entirely_ with the man-lion she’d been ordered to _ensure_ doesn’t do anything... Stupid. She can already tell _that’s_ going to be a lost battle. Blast it all! This idiotic lion is going to _ruin_ her spotless record with the Queen’s Guard!

“ _Leif!_ ” she hisses. “ _Ge’ outta ’ere!_ ”

She glances anxiously from the cloaked lion to the workshop window where Mally has been watching Tarra assist the furniture maker. They’d had a _very_ early morning and both Mally and Bayto had heard the overwhelmingly information-packed lecture Tarra had received from the furniture maker that morning:

“As ye’re righ’ly aged fer yer Craftin’ Instincts teh b ’wakened, ye’ll intrehdaece yerself as mae apprentice, y’ken? Nauw, as mae apprentice, ye’ll likely b’advisin’ th’custom on their orders. We’ve only an hour ’r twine teh fill yer head up wi’ th’ ways o’ smallish carpentry – o’herways ken as ’inteh-house wares’ – sae heed mae well, lass...”

Then, just as the town had begun to stir to life for the day, Tarra had been sent out with replies to the furniture requests that had been delivered in the master’s absence. Mally had followed her, clutching Bayto’s collar and had overheard Master Setteeson’s lecture rephrased and reused over and over again all morning long while various clients had fretted over this brocade or that shade of wood stain. With a brief stop at the furniture shop, Tarra had delivered the detailed orders to her employer and had once again been sent out. This time to procure lunch.

It hadn’t taken long for her to be Noticed.

“Ye’re new teh town,” a lanky young man had observed as Tarra had wrapped up her purchases at the baker’s.

“Oh, aye. Dae’in’ a bit o’ apprenticin’!”

“In which trade be ye workin’?” the young mad had asked before placing his order at the shop.

“Smallish carpentry an ’ inteh-home wares.”

“Ah. Sae _ye’re_ Setteeson’s naew apprentice?”

Tarra had smiled with a becoming mix of pride and bashful modesty. “Fer th’ time bein’.”

“Well, I’m Abler Masonmark. O’ th’ stone engravers trade. Mayhap ye’ll b **’** thinkin’ o’ steppin’ ou’ this evenin’? B’ glad teh show ye th’ town.”

“’Tis a date, Abler Masonmark. Stop ’round an’ ask fer Dirka Worthwool.”

Mally and Bayto had hidden around the corner and watched the two part ways. Apprehensively, Bayto had whined, “Do you want me to tell Leif _that_ , too, when I go back to the inn with my report?”

Mally had cringed. “Aye, you’d better. No telling what that fool will do if he learns of it otherways...”

Unfortunately, Leif had decided that he’d had enough quiet time at the inn “coordinating” the mission and waiting for news. Apparently.

Mally waves her paws at him. “Ge’ back to the inn! She’ll _see_ you!”

The shadows beneath the hood of his long cloak shift into an oddly scowl-like pattern. “I need to see this Masonmark.” It is not a request, Mally notices.

She considers her options. And while it would be very satisfying to call his attention to his unreasonable behavior, it _would_ be highly unprofessional. Mally _prides_ herself on being a Professional. “Fine. _See_ only! No speaking, showing, or threatening!”

He gives her a flat glare and, thankfully, refrains from arguing.

“Where’s Bayto got to?” she whispers instead, returning her attention to the window and the tasks the roundish and eye-patched furniture maker seems to be enthusiastically explaining to his temporary assistant.

“I sent him to sniff out the town. Maybe he’ll overhear these supposed rumors and we can all leave on tomorrow.”

Mally shakes her head. Here, in the narrow alley behind the furniture maker’s shop, in the shadows of approaching dusk, she dares to argue, “Settin’ aside the fact that Bayto ain’t all that good at Outlandish, there’s this one to keep in mind: she won’t be goin’ home so quickly, you know. Like our Alice in that way. She’ll see it through to the end.”

Leif grunts and Mally turns around in time to catch the bitter twist of his lips.

“Sour bile?” she muses, with a knowing smirk.

“Something like that.”

“Well, as I ’ll be taking my supper _out_ tonight, maybe Bayto and I could bring you back something more to your liking than the... _fare_ at the inn?”

“ _I’ll_ cover the... _date_ ,” he spits out. “You’ve been on duty all day. Get some rest, Mally.”

“No. Absolutely not! She’ll see you lurking about and—!”

“She won’t see me! I _can_ blend into the crowd!”

“Right. In Shuchland, maybe. Go back to the inn. Bayto and I can handle this.”

“I am _not_ going back to the inn!” he growls at her. His voice is soft but the deep tone of it rattles Mally’s bones. “This is _my_ mission!”

Mally gives him a once over. “Aye. And you’re perfectly suited for it. Inconspicuous size. Good tracking skills. Very useful, _you_ are.”

His paws curl into fists. “More useful _here_ than at Mamoreal.”

“How d’you figure that?” Mally returns, looking through the window again. Tarra appears to be using a handful of sand to smooth over the rough edges of an unvarnished, wooden rocking chair. “The king and queen ain’t got _any_ Champions _now._ ”

“They will in five days’ time. The White Guard can manage until then.”

“Five days...? Oh. Right. _Thursday_.” When Alice and Tarrant normally visit the castle. And she won’t even be there this time for tea when her friends arrive! Blast it all!

Irritated and her teacup of patience well and truly empty, Mally snaps, “Do whatever you want. _I’m_ goin’ be keeping an eye on our charge tonight because _I_ – unlike _you_ – can understand Outlandish. So it’ll be _me_ who hears these rumors. _You_ just continue _supervising_.”

Miraculously, he doesn’t argue. Mally breathes a silent sigh of relief and turns her attention back to the workshop. She can barely hear Setteeson’s occasional comments:

“Nauw, ye see this line ’ere? Tha’s a chair line. Won’see a line like this on a ken-made settee ’r table...”

“An’ this slope here? Follows th’ curve o’ a unicorn’s spine. Ye’ve gotteh take th’ custom’s species inteh consideration, ye see?”

“Th’ ver’best inteh-house wares fit th’ owner. Th’ chair fits th’ owner; th’ owner fits th’ chair. Tha’s the job, lass. Fittin’.”

Mally isn’t sure if Tarra listens and nods and, occasionally, _hmms_ because she’s genuinely interested in the lecture or if she is taking her role _very seriously._

In any case, when the evening bell sounds, calling in the workers from the nearby fields and Orash orchards to dinner, Tarra helps Setteeson clean up his workroom. Just as they finish, the bell on the shop’s front showcase door draws their attention.

Through the glass, Mally hears Abler Masonmark’s voice call out. “Gehd duskin’, Master Setteeson, ser! I’m ’ere teh call on Ms. Worthwool if’n she b’liken teh gae out fer supper t’night.”

Setteeson waves to him through the open door between the shop and the workroom. “Ar,” he says. “Dirka’s ’ere. A moment, laddie.”

Mally cannot hear what Setteeson says to his assistant in a low mumble, but Tarra’s answering smirk is _very_ clear. Obviously, she’s quite proud of herself for having made contact with at least one of the local youths.

“It’s the younger ones Setteeson said were speakin’ out against the queen,” Mally muses. “Right?”

Leif nods. “Yes.”

Mally sighs. “The young do like to boast and brag. You realize this could just be normal teenage malcontent. Mere lads and lasses wouldn’t _really_ have any plans to move agains’ the White Crown.”

They watch Tarra move out into the front of the shop to greet her new... friend. Leif sends Mally a sharp glare. “It’s our job to make sure they don’t.”

She huffs and, before he can turn away, leaps onto his shoulder. “I ain’t forgot!” she admonishes him. “Now, let’s see how good you are at tracking!”

And, as it turns out, he ’s no Bayto, but he’s still pretty good. They arrive at one of the village taverns and Leif finds himself a seat at the bar in the deepest shadows in the place. Mally scurries away, weaves through boots and dodges drips of Grobbenale and Battenmead until she’s under the table Tarra is sharing with Abler Masonmark.

Mally listens. Not just to their conversation, but to many others in the room.

Still, no strange, radical rumors are murmured. No dissatisfaction is spoken against the White Queen.

Not tonight, anyway.

You ’d think they’d be more obliging what with guests from out of town present!

And ain’t lads supposed to want to _show off_ for the lasses? Mally indulges in her frustration and irritation by glaring at Abler’s knees.

When Tarra and Abler get up to leave, Mally reluctantly returns to Leif – muttermonging-less – and they follow, keeping to the shadows of Crimson Harbor. Abler shows Tarra around the streets, pointing out the scrollery and laundry. He also shows her a sweets shop and a local milliner’s. They’ve made a complete and pleasant tour of the town by the time their path brings them back to the furniture shop.

Everything is just fine. _Normal_. Even the way Abler leans toward Tarra, as if to demand a good-night kiss is _normal_.

Tarra plays the game: she smiles, pinches his cheek, thanks him for the evening, and disappears inside the shop.

Abler doesn’t seem all that surprised. Or even disappointed. It’s a game, after all. And, apparently, one he likes to play.

“I don’t like him,” Leif declares, scowling after the young man who is strutting off down the quiet, dark street, whistling under his breath.

Mally rolls her eyes. “I’m gettin’ as tired of your jealous frowns as you probably are o’ makin’ ’em!” she declares.

“I am not jealous.”

Mally shakes her head and sighs. “An ’ you’re _thick_ , too,” she grumbles.

He slides a fierce glare in her direction. “We have a job to do, Mallymkun,” he murmurs in a dark tone.

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to remind _you_ of!” she hisses.

“Is _that_ what all your squeaking was about?”

Mally has to command herself _not_ to draw her sword. After all, they’re both here for the same reason. They both serve the same crown.

Still... Mally has a notion:

Working with _this_ prime, up-right walking example of Stupid is going to be hellish. And about These Sorts of Things, Mally is _never_ wrong.

 

*~*~*~*

 

It is a hellish week.

After arriving in Iplam through the looking glass – with a scowling and sullen son in tow – and after debriefing a frustratingly vague evaporating cat and after quickly inspecting the half-dozen painstakingly customized examples of quality head-wear for invisible cat hair (a task _not_ to be taken lightly and which must be done _properly_ when he has more Time!) and after apologizing to the sheep and chickens for neglecting to warn them that a Cat would be village sitting for a day and a half, Tarrant _still_ has his regular duties to get on with. Of which there are Many.

“What can I do to help?” Alice asks him, laying a hand on his arm even as she holds out his top hat on the threshold of the manor. And for that question alone, he feels a surge of love for her so strong it makes his throat lock and her breath catch.

He brushes his fingers along her jaw and under her chin. “I’m due at Eldred Boothsmith’s first today,” he tells her, withdrawing a roll of parchment and stick of charcoal. “As ’tis nearly time fer th’ autumnal Crafted Goods Barterment. Woul’ ye go round an’ ask th’ families after the perishables they’ll be requirin’ fer th’ comin’ week?”

Alice nods. “Of course. I’ll stop by the coup and the dairy stalls to see if there are any requests from that quarter as well. Perhaps the chickens are getting tired of cracked blue corn or the cows would prefer a bit of clover hay...”

Tarrant marvels at her. He doesn’t doubt that the heartache that still tightens his chest is from her. He doesn’t doubt that she still aches for a sword and a sparring partner or even a reluctant student. But he can very clearly see that she is _trying_. Perhaps something good _had_ come of their trip Above...

“Thank ye, my Alice.”

“You’re welcome, Raven.”

And so Tarrant makes the rounds, listing the goods that each family will need for the coming autumn and winter and the products they have available to trade for them. Alice starts at a different home and asks after each family’s list of edibles and other daily necessities they’ll need for the coming few days. It’s a much bigger job than it seems as, in order to ensure there is no more waste than can be avoided, the exchange of edibles must be negotiated and coordinated precisely. Tarrant leaves the task in Alice’s very capable hands and gets on with his own tasks for the day.

Later, just as day turns to evening, Alice finds him in the manor study, scowling at the lists of necessities and barter-ables.

“Everything’s arranged for the foodstuffs exchange tomorrow morning,” she tells him, coming around the side of the desk and glancing over his shoulder at the parchments spread out on the desk. After a moment, she rubs his shoulders.

With a nod to the unfurled lists, she says, “This will be just fine,” and, not for the first time, he admires her ability to see order in chaos.

He’d spent an hour puzzling over how to ensure that his first attempt at representing his village’s citizens at the Crafted Goods Barterment benefits _every one_ of Hightopp Village’s residents and yet, with a single look, Alice can comfort him in a tone that is confident rather than compassionate.

“How d’ye _do_ tha’?” he asks, pushing his chair back, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her down to sit on his knee.

“Do what?” she asks, smiling a she looks over the parchments a bit more closely.

“See th’ order in all this chaos?”

“I suppose my time with the company, brief though it was, wasn’t a complete waste of effort after all.” She bumps his shoulder playfully. “Speaking of... How do you see the Truth behind all the masks people hide behind?”

He grins. “I suppose we all have our talents.”

“Yes, we do,” she says, then turns back to the list of items needed and the list of goods available for trade. “We’ll go to Mamoreal and try to get the best possible items for everyone, of course,” Alice assures him and, with her aforementioned background with the Ascot family’s trading company in Upland, he doesn’t doubt they’ll succeed, “but I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble this season... even if we ask our Hightoppians to barter amongst themselves.”

“Hightoppians?” he echoes.

“Uh-hm,” she murmurs then leans back in his embrace, one arm looped over his shoulders and the other hand resting over his heart. “I know it hasn’t been all that long since they arrived, but... we’re all a kind of family, now, too. Aren’t we?”

Tarrant looks at her and thinks of the camaraderie that is slowly building in their little village. He thinks of the jokes and jests and hand shakes and slaps on the back and hails of welcome and cups of tea and the sharing of warm bread and fresh cream and just-harvested vegetables and...

“Aye,” he replies. “Ye’ve th’ right o’ it, my Alice. Hightoppians.”

She smiles.

He rubs the palm of his hand against her thigh and wonders aloud, “You look happier, Alice.”

The ache is still there – _her_ ache – but he can see that her smile is genuine and the light in her eyes is true.

“Yes,” she says simply. “It’s going to be fine. _Everything_ is going to be fine.”

And, for the first time since they’d made this enormous change in their lives and responsibilities, Tarrant believes it.

“Come help me with dinner,” she orders. “We’ve a disgruntled son to feed.”

He sighs but lets her stand and then pull him out of his chair.

Yes, Tam is indeed _most_ disgruntled. Not only had he been denied a holiday Above, but all of his troubles had been waiting to welcome him home. Unfortunately, Chessur had not helped the matter:

“Back for another try, are we?” Chessur had purred upon seeing their frowning son. “And here I was _sure_ you’d take to an Uplandish trade this time!”

As Alice and Tarrant cut up vegetables for stew and slice the bread and tear up non-sentient leaves of lettuce and cabbage for salad, the faint thumps of a rawhide drum can be heard from upstairs.

“I wish that meant he’d finished with his studies today, but...”

“Aye,” Tarrant answers with a frown. “More likely he di’nae pick up a single book or scroll.”

“Except to move them out of the way so he could get his drums out.”

Tarrant sighs.

That sigh follows him over the next few days. Tam is moody, depressed, and irritable – more so than normal – and Tarrant seriously begins to wonder about his son’s health.

“Could he be... ill?” he asks Alice one night as she washes the dinner dishes and he dries. From upstairs, Tam is strumming on his guitar angrily.

“Yes,” Alice replies. “It’s called Puberty.”

Tarrant winces and accepts the dripping earthenware bowl Alice hands him. “Mayhap the trip to Mamoreal will cheer him.”

“Dear Fates, I hope so.” She scrubs at the cast iron pan that the night’s potato pie had been baked in and grits out, “I don’t know what else to do.”

Tarrant isn’t sure either. Nightly quizzes on his studies had yielded very poor results. More responsibility around the village had in fact driven him more and more often to his room.

He wishes he and Alice had more _time_ to spend with him but this budding settlement is their responsibility and there are other families counting on them and...

Tarrant looks up at the ceiling as a particularly harsh chord is aggressively strummed. “Alice... I’m afraid.”

“I know,” she says, her soapy hand reaching out and grasping his. She’s exhausted but she _tries_ to reassure both him and herself: “If we can just be patient a little longer... Something will catch his interest soon. I’ll ask Mirana to let Tam, Lanny, and Ian run amok in Mamoreal Town together. Perhaps that will help. A little adventure, I mean.”

“Aye. Although I pity the craftsmen there... well. It’s for a greater good,” Tarrant decides. “Perhaps if they found a _little_ trouble...”

“Exactly,” Alice agrees.

Unfortunately, Tam doesn’t.

“I don’t want to go to Mamoreal tomorrow,” he announces suddenly over the dinner table.

“I... beg your pardon,” Tarrant manages, his cheese sandwich forgotten halfway to his mouth.

“What’s the point?” Tam dares. “Nothing ever changes. Here. There. It doesn’t matter.” He looks up from stabbing his uneaten sandwich with his fork. “It’s boring _everywhere_.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tarrant sees Alice’s jaw lock and her eyes flash. After nearly a week of constant un-gratitude and stubborn, self-imposed angst, Tarrant fears their son is one more stab of his fork away from a confrontation with Alice’s inner Champion.

“Be glad things _aren’t_ changing,” he quickly replies, rubbing his stockinged foot over Alice’s beneath the table. “Boring is a good thing.”

Tam snorts. “Sure. It’s great. Why can’t I visit Win Above?”

“I’m seriously considering it,” Alice grits out.

Tarrant opens his mouth to say... well, to say    
_something!_

“Or better yet,” Tam continues, his eyes flashing with inspiration that is absolutely staged. “Why not just show me how looking glass travel works? Then I wouldn’t have to bother you to keep the mirror open at all!”

Tarrant sighs.

Alice takes a deep breath. “If you’re done mutilating your dinner, you may consume it at _any_ time,” she informs him.

“I don’t like cheese sandwiches.”

“Then perhaps Your Majesty King Hightopp would be so kind as to prepare a menu so that your parents, who obviously have nothing better to do with their lives than cook meals for you and wash your dishes, might offer something more agreeable tomorrow night!”

And that quickly, Lady Hightopp – still too new and too tentative to be more than a forceful Idea – disappears in the wake of Champion Alice.

Tarrant’s wife stands and carries her plate over to the wash basin. She sets it down with a _thunk!_ , steps into her boots, and grabs the tall, plain stave leaning beside the door with the cloaks and hoods. Tarrant watches Tam flinch when the door slams shut.

“It’s not fair,” his son informs the remains of his dinner.

“No,” Tarrant agrees, aching for his wife. Aching _with_ his wife. “It isn’t. This is life, after all. And while you’re busy thinking on how life isn’t fair to you, go ahead and consider how fair it’s been to your Mam who had to give up her job and her friends to come here. Consider how _fair_ it’s been to the Hightopp family, all but one of whom _died_ in this very clearing because of the greed of the Bluddy Red Queen. Life was _interesting_ then. Ver’excitin’! Why, one ne’er knew when ye’d be taken by th’ Red Knights, tortured, _beheaded_. Oh, aye,” he growls. “A ver’ _interestin’_ time was had by _all._ Now, when ye’re done _not_ eatin’, ye can wash yer dishes yerself an’ - as ye’ve an appointment wi’ Sir Fenruffle at Mamoreal t’morrow – ye can get teh work on yer studies.”

Tarrant doesn’t bother with his own dishes. He rises, grabs his shoes and the second stave, and follows his wife out the door.

He finds her in the clearing behind the manor where Chessur had delivered them the last time they’d held the Maigh here. It’s hard to believe that eleven years have passed since then. Especially when he’s faced with his wife’s depthless and brightly burning passion, be it rooted in anger or love.

The stave whistles through the air as she practices the moves he knows she fears she’ll one day forget how to perform. But he also knows she fears needlessly. When she turns, the staff arcing through the air and screaming toward him, he meets it with his own.

The fight is brief and Alice wins.

She pins him to the ground, her weight balanced equally on her shins which she uses to press his thighs down and on her hands which hold the staff across his chest. For a minute, she pants down at him, her eyes glowing with pure _fire_. He watches, spellbound, at the amber light that burns there. And then she _stops_ pinning him to the earth. Her knees lower to either side of his hips. Her hands release and toss aside the stave. She presses _against_ him, pelvis, chest, and lips.

“Stop with me,” she mumbles into his gasping mouth.

His hands reach for her. His brows twitch with concentration and intent and then...

Silence.

The breeze stops. The sounds of the twilight creatures stop.

Everything stops... except for them.

Time stands still as they fight to get closer to each other. She takes him into her. He makes her feel every movement, every moment that passes for them... for _only_ them.

Yet even as he joins her in the rush of release, he does not find peace. How can he? How can he knowing that Alice will always be a Champion and only sometimes a Lady? How can he knowing her greatest fear is obsoleteness and weakness? How can he knowing that when she is hurt or unsure or frustrated, her first instinct is to fight?

He’s lucky she enjoys it when he joins her in that. He’s fortunate that is something he can give her. But what of the need itself? Is that not tragic beyond compare?

He lies with her in the motionless silence of the Iplam twilight. They look up at the unmoving stars, at the snap-dragon flies frozen in mid-flight. Soon, they will release their hold on Time. Soon, they will allow life to live again. Soon, _they_ will live again. But not now. Now they are two Champions in exile.

Until this moment, Tarrant had believed it had been only Alice who suffers from that particular affliction. But he sees the truth now. How can he not? How can he ignore the words he’d snarled at his own son?

For the survivors of the Bloody Big Head’s reign of terror... the fight will never be over. And he and Alice are merely _playing_ at being a lord and a lady. The past, he realizes – _remembers!_ – is just over his shoulder, calling his name, hoping to trip his step should he be tempted to turn and look back.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tarra doesn’t look back as that blighter, Abler Masonmark, takes her hand and leads her into the orchards surrounding Crimson Harbor. Despite his need to remain hidden, Leif almost wishes she would. But, over the past few days – ever since her arrival at this harbor town – Tarra has not once looked back. She’s looked up, side to side, and in front of her; Leif has watched the results of Alice’s tutelage manifest themselves in Tarra’s confidence and subtle awareness of her surroundings.

And yet, she never looks back.

Does that mean she is _aware_ of them? Of him? Of the ones who are watching out for her?

Or is she precisely what he’s always accused her of being: a thoughtless and careless little princess playing at being a warrior?

Bayto’s tail slaps Leif across the back of his knee and the lion jerks to attention. He’d been daydreaming again. Damn it.

It’s just as well Bayto had been the one to catch him at it. If Mally had she would have raised holy hell over it. Yes, it’s just as well she’d carefully climbed into the picnic basket Tarra had prepared for her luncheon _date_. No doubt Mally has already found her way into Tarra’s cloak pocket or hood. Quite possibly, Tarra is fully aware of her presence.

Not that it will be required.

There is nothing here. No rumors. No anti-White Queen sentiments. No rebellion. No danger.

None of the concerns Setteeson had described are present here.

Leif wonders if it had all been a ruse. He wonders if the White King and Queen are in danger... but how could they be with their guard and the army close by?

What had been the purpose of drawing Tarra and himself away from Mamoreal?

He cannot fathom it. Perhaps Alice could. His lips twist into a wry grin. Yes, Alice would definitely have an idea or two about their current situation. She is never short on ideas. If anything, she is grandiose.

The only thing grandiose about this... _mission_ is the number of “friends” Tarra has managed to make, has managed to fool into believing she’s an Outlandish lass and not second in line to the throne of the White Realm. For the past three evenings, Leif had lurked and listened. As had Mally and Bayto. There had been merriment and a bit of flirting and quite a lot of bad jokes and even more gossip.

But not a single word against the queen. Not a single whisper of malcontent or rebellion. Not a single, stinking, solitary one.

So, there is no investigation to be had. That is _very_ clear now. But Mally had been right about Tarra’s stubbornness: of course, the girl is refusing to go home. No one had asked her, of course, but Leif can see it in the tilt of her head, the lift of her chin, the tension around her eyes. She still thinks she has a job to do.

Obstinate child.

Well, let her do it. There is no danger here. Certainly not in broad daylight in an orchard frequented by young people on their Rest Day. What could possibly happen to her there? In that happy, populated place?

He waits with Bayto in their room at the inn and watches from the window. They have a good view of the street and there is no reason for Tarra or her... _date_ to return to town by any other route. He watches as couple after couple leave town... and then some time later return. He waits as group after group of young people skip and trip their way to the orchards and then galumph back though the streets, energized and full of life.

He watches... but neither Tarra nor her... _date_ return.

“It’s getting late,” Bayto whines.

Leif nods even as he wonders at the difference in temperament between this son of Bayard and Bayelle’s and his brother Bayne. Bayne would have made that observation ages ago along with a no-nonsense declaration about going out for a look. Whether Leif had approved or not.

“Let’s go,” Leif says and reaches for his cloak.

It’s almost natural by now to slink through the shadows. It almost doesn’t feel like the thievery he knows it is: he is stealing privacy from Tarra. He is stealing her freedom, her assumption that she is accomplishing this mission by herself, her culpability in the consequences of her actions.

But is it stealing if she never realizes he’d done it?

And is it stealing if she _knows_ he’s there, but never looks back to confirm so? If she gives him tacit permission to be there?

All good questions. Unfortunately, this is not the time for them. Nor does Leif possess the patience required to sort them out at the moment.

He follows Bayto’s nose, which is by far superior to his own, out of the shadows of the town and into the orchard. The sun has set but the sky is still glowing. Soon, it will be dark but that doesn’t bother Leif. He has his sword and Bayto has his nose.

The third time Bayto turns around and retraces the same path within the orchard, Leif can’t stop himself from demanding, “What is it?”

Bayto doesn’t answer. He sniffs his way back into town, around the furniture workshop, around the buildings and stores Tarra had visited the day before, and then back to the orchard.

“What _is_ it?” Leif commands on a hissing breath.

“Nothing,” Bayto replies, lifting his nose from the ground for the first time since they’d set out. “There’s nothing. She was here. _Right here._ And then... nothing.”

Leif stares dumbly at the hound’s black shape in the darkness.

Bayto concludes, “She’s... gone. Both she _and_ Mally are just... _gone._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. If anyone is interested, yes, guitars were around in the Victorian period (although they weren’t as popular as the piano, certainly). They were smaller and didn't resonate as well as today's modern guitars (which were developed in the latter half of the 19th century by Antonia de Torres). I imagined Tam has a baroque guitar (c. 1600 - 1750) like the one shown in "The Guitar Player" (a painting) by Jan Vermeer (c. 1672)
> 
> And here is a YouTube video of a baroque guitar being played: [Paul O'Dette performs](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4xVXZQFuhQ)


	5. Children of the White Reign

 

The next morning Tarrant finds Tamial sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, dressed and contrite but wrapped up so tightly in his own pride that his normally Orashlach-colored eyes are a dull chestnut.

“I didn’t make any tea,” Tam says quietly, for once remembering Tarrant’s almost daily reminder not to wake his Mam. “But there’s bread and butter.”

Tarrant smiles and holds out a hand to give his son a bit of assistance with standing upright from his scrunched crouch. “If you’ll bread the butter, then I’ll tea the pot.”

They conquer the kitchen and broker breakfast in serene silence and then, just as Tarrant considers that it’s time to wake Alice with a warm surge of love and hope via the heart line, Tam says, “Mam really slew the Jabberwocky? She really defeated the Red Queen?”

“Aye,” Tarrant tells him, delaying Alice’s wake-up call. “That she did.”

“The Red Queen was really... bad?” he dares, contemplating his slice of buttered bread.

Tarrant reaches out and squeezes his son’s shoulder. “Aye. She was.”

“You... never said anything. You don’t talk about it. But I think I heard... something... maybe at the last Maigh. About Hightopp Village and the Jabberwocky...”

Drawing a deep breath, Tarrant sits down in the neighboring seat and drapes his arm over the back of his son’s chair. “’Tis a very long story. And I fear you’ll go off your breakfast if I tell it all now, but, aye. The Red Queen ordered the Jabberwock teh destroy Hightopp Village. An’ e’eryone in it.”

“But _you_ lived, so... You weren’t there when it... happened?”

Tarrant closes his eyes and tells himself they’re still green. Mostly. He opens his mouth to speak and then a wave of warmth, of peace, of strength and muchness overcomes him. He can very nearly feel his chest expand with it all.

  
_Alice..._

She’s awake. Perhaps his anxiety had awakened her. He feels a little guilty about that, but he doubts she minds. No, his wife Understands.

“I was there. I was in the employ of the White Queen at the time,” he explains. “Her guard was not prepared for the attack and as I was closest to her... I led her and her steed away.”

“You... chose the queen over your own family?” Tam demands with a bluntness only children can ever manage. The blade of it, made of shock, shaped with curiosity, and forged in innocence, thrusts into his heart, stealing his breath. He’d known he would have to explain this to Tam one day. He just hadn’t thought today would be That Day _._

“I did.”

“How come? Didn’t you love them?”

“Tamial...” he replies, forcing out the words. “The reason... I lived through that day... is something I hope you will never Understand.” Before Tam can work up enough contrariness to argue with him or accuse him of being overprotective or treating him like a child – which he still _is_ , of course! – Tarrant continues, “Your Mam and I both hope there is never another war, another battle, another tragedy in Underland. We hope you never have to see that, hear it, live it. But if you do... if ye do, _ye do whate’er ye must teh_ _ **survive**_ _it!_ ” he orders his son.

Tam stares at him with eyes gone wide and pale with surprise.

“You survive,” Tarrant repeats as he feels this particular instruction is more than important enough to warrant repetition. “Even if it means leaving your Mam and I behind. D’ye heed me, lad?”

“Aye, Fa. I heed ye.”

Tarrant glances away. His son rarely uses Outlandish; he prefers the more sophisticated terms and intonation of Court, just like Alice. So to hear his son speak it now...

“You make me proud, Tamial Hightopp,” he says, looking at his son again.

His son. His and Alice’s _son._ For so long this child and Tarrant’s dream of him had been forfeited to the war. And he has never been happier that Chessur had made him that utterly mad, eleventh-hour offer in the dungeons of the castle at Crims.

“Do I smell tea?”

Tarrant leans away from the table, inhaling with enough force to keep the tears burning his eyes from making an appearance. He smiles at his wife, who is leaning around the door jamb with a soft grin curving her lips. His _wife._ Dear Fates, but after that Horvendush Day he had never dared to _dream_ that he would be... that he would have... that they would...

“Throeston Blend?” she checks taking her usual seat.

“Aye.”

He pours for Alice and watches as she takes a sip, her eyes closing in bliss. “This is just what we need to get moving today.”

“Yes, yes,” he agrees. “A busy day at both ends and in be-twix.”

“Filled with sparring,” she continues, thinking of her apprentice he doesn’t doubt.

“And hat fittings,” he continues.

“And royal conferences.” Even this is said with some enthusiasm.

“And haberdashery.”

“And quizzes on Underlandian history,” Alice continues, prying open one eye and peering at their son over the cup’s rim and through the tea’s steam.

Tam sighs. “I studied.”

“Excellent!” Tarrant replies more out of an effort to keep the mood light than any real belief in his son’s enthusiasm for his studies. “Then you’ll be thick as Thackery’s plum pudding with those hooligan friends of yours in no time!” In fact, they might even manage to fall _into_ a batch of Thack’s plum pudding... again. And this time Tarrant would very much like to see that sight before the queen arrives and orders them to get cleaned up!

Tam frowns.

Alice hides her smirk beneath another _long_ sip of tea. Yes, they all know that Fenruffle will not permit Tam to spend time with his friends until the lad can pass the weekly test the gryphon has set for him.

Tarrant watches out of the corner of his eye as Tam shoves the remains of his bread and butter in his mouth and then mumbles, “I think I’ll go check on some, uh, stuff before we go.”

“We’ll let you know when we’re ready,” Alice promises him as he slouches off.

When they hear his thudding footsteps ascending the stairs, Tarrant leans forward and wiggles his brows at Alice. “A finger of Batten jam says he’s gone to study as fast as his poor unexercised mind can manage.”

“M’s, Hatter,” his wife observes and then Alice’s grin takes a decidedly wicked turn. She reaches across the table and – before he can protest – she collects his hand and sucks his middle finger into her mouth.

He stares at her, gapes at the sight of his finger knuckle-deep between Alice’s pursed, pink lips. Slowly... _so_ slowly, she leans back until only the tip of his finger is being held captive. She gives it a flick with her tongue and a nip with her teeth before she releases him.

“Mmmm... You win,” she informs him, breaking the breathless silence.

“ _Alice..._ ”

“Although, you _do_ still owe me some Batten jam.”

His jaw clenches as he considers all of the... ways he might Offer her some. “An’ I’ll make gehd on tha’,” he promises.

She smiles and sips her tea. “I Know.”

Yes, he doesn’t doubt that she does. He _always_ makes good on his Promises. And speaking of... he now has another item on his List of Things to Do:

He has business with the castle pantry and its mad guardian. One way or another, he’s going to have to get Thackery to hand over one of his precious jars of Batten jam. He grins at the thought of following through on _that_ promise: oh, yes, this is going to be a busy day indeed. At _both_ ends **and** in between.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“I like the puce,” Amallya informs him dreamily as she twirls a rather... _striking_ touring hat in her small hands. Tarrant narrows his eyes as if the action has the power to shield his irises from the clash of colors.

“Very... dramatic,” he agrees diplomatically. True, puce is not a color he would have been inclined to apply to a touring hat, but it does have a certain appeal... “But I should think that – in this particular case – a bit of chartreuse will be necessary to balance it out.”

“Chartreuse is a late spring color,” she lectures him whimsically. “It won’t be welcome on an early winter hat.”

“It will if you ask the other colors nicely not to judge it too harshly. Here, give this a try,” he says, snipping off a sizable scrap of bright green lace and handing it to her.

He keeps an eye on her for a few moments as she considers the addition he’d more or less ordered her to incorporate into her design. When she seems to be on a satisfactory track, Tarrant turns his attention back to the hat requests that have made an appearance since his last visit. He scans the forms, noting that – thankfully! – most of the courtiers have filled out the required fields appropriately:

 **Hat character:** _Misanthropic_

 **Wearer’s disposition:** _Prideful_

 **Season or occasion of wear:** _high tea, Tuesdays_

 **Accompanying accessories:** _black heeled shoes with pink buckles, oyster shell necklace, soft breezes, veiled compliments and sidelong glances_

 **Unavoidable mannerisms:** _smirks, ringlet twirling about the left index finger, ..._

Yes, the queen’s court have been well-trained in how to _properly_ complete their hat request forms!

Tarrant reviews them and makes rough sketches in the margins to discuss with Amallya after luncheon, which should be starting soon. They’d gotten an early start and Fitzfrey had been feeling rather frisky today so they’d made the journey to the castle in record time, even with only the one horse pulling their cart. He imagines the frog footmen are even now laying out the samples of the wares the Hightoppians had produced for the biannual exchange of goods. He’d given a copy of the lists he’d prepared to Fenruffle who had assured him they would be posted just as soon as Tamial had finished his weekly exam. And from the lack of boyish shouts and thundering footsteps resonating from somewhere on the grounds, Tarrant assumes his son is still being put through his intellectual paces.

“Hm, you’re right, Master Hatter,” Amallya muses. “They do get along well if given proper introductions.”

Tarrant returns his attention to his apprentice and smiles at the hat she presents to him, now compositionally perfect if a bit... eye-wateringly bright. “I think you’ll find that is the case with most things, Miss Amallya.”

“Hm... these are the rest of last week’s orders?” she inquires, waltzing over to the half dozen hat boxes he’d brought with him and lifting the lid of the first.

He answers as he once again scans the new requests and sketches potential hats in the margins, “Yes. If you would be so kind as to apply your nose and sniff them for Cheshire Cat hairs, I would be most appreciative.” He’d given them a thorough inspection himself, of course, but the assistance of an additional set of nostrils could only be a good thing in this instance.

He’s contemplating a blustery bonnet that’s meant to suit a bold lady with a blue choker and bothersome tendency to sneeze before she manages to utter the punchline of a joke when the bit of charcoal pencil in his grasp snaps in two.

How uncharacteristically unreliable!  He frowns at it for a moment.  And then his entire body suddenly spasms.

Tarrant slams his left fist – still clutching the now-crumpled orders – on the cluttered table and no doubt scraping the side of his hand on bobbins and other bits. The table shudders at the impact and he spares a thought to an apology but he’s a bit busy bracing himself at the moment.

“Uncle Hatter?” Amallya asks with concern.

He tries to answer. He really does. He gasps, “I’m fine. I’m...”

 _And then_ he recognizes the feeling that had exploded from within him, numbing him before he could even fully appreciate it: the sensation burning along his heart line is still utterly and completely unclassifiable and all he knows for sure is that his Alice needs him. Right Now!

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,” he manages, pulling himself together and upright before striding for the door.

“You are excused, sir,” his apprentice replies pleasantly, concerns appeased by his apparent return to Himself.

Tarrant manages to make it to the hat workshop door, open it, step out into the hall, and close it before he breaks into a run. He sprints along the second floor hall, past the main staircase and the commotion of things being carried and organized and whatnot in the cavernous main foyer. He takes a left, and then another, and then a right, and then he’s ramming his shoulder against the door to the queen’s office and...

“Hatter!”

The queen’s shout is secondary to the sight in front of him:

Alice has Argur Frothbreath by his undoubtedly smelly and obviously hairy scruff and is shaking him with the index finger of her other hand poking him in his slimy nose.

“—not just tell me you have _lost_ an entire Champion, Argur!”

The creature brays his usual hysterical laugh. “I was be-sayin’ that very thing, Lassling!”

Tarrant ignores the rhyme and, seeing that although Alice is clearly Upset she has the situation well in hand, he closes the office door... with himself on the interior side of it.

“Try again, Argur. Tell me Irondirk’s message again. This time make sure you get all the words in the correct order.”

Tarrant edges closer to the startled and unusually pale queen.

“Got ’em all in the right order the first time!” he screeches. “Nobody’s found Champion Tarranya. Not since last night.”

“And just _what_ took you so long to get here?” she demands – very nearly _screams_ – in his twitching face.

“Champion Leif – right stubborn, that one! Shoulda been born a bull!” He brays again at his own joke until Alice shakes a bit of sense back into him. “Still looking! Got the bloodhound’s nose to the ground! Won’t leave. Refuses.” The hyena produces a giggle and Tarrant winces. Surely, listening to a symphony of claws and nails and fangs on a chalkboard would be more pleasant!

“Irondirk ’s gonna cleave ’im!” Argur predicts. “And I’m thinking I’d like to see that!” With that declaration, he twists free of Alice’s grasp. Or perhaps she lets him go. Most likely the stench of wharf-washed and wind-tangled salty fish-flavored fur has made it through her rage to her nose. He cringes in sympathy at the thought... until he realizes exactly what’s been said.

He turns toward the queen as Alice starts her interrogation anew (something about Irondirk and Leif and the definition of stubborn...) and inquires in an urgent whisper, “Your Majesty, Princess Tarranya is... is..?”

“Missing,” she supplies on a muchless whisper, her hands trembling. “She stepped out with a young man yesterday afternoon on the Rest Day and neither have been seen since.”

“... I... I see.” Unfortunately. And all angles of the situation are Bad, indeed.

“I _don_ ’ _t_ see,” Alice fairly shouts, bringing Tarrant and the queen’s attention back to the... discussion taking place on the other side of the room.

“Well, that’s the trouble with mice, eh? Hard to see, like.”

“You are telling me you have also _lost_ _ **Mallymkun?!**_ ”

“ _What?!_ ” Tarrant realizes, a moment later, that the shout must have come from him as _he_ now has Argur in his sights. And, indeed, despite being in the creature’s face, encroaching most discourteously on his personal space, Tarrant cannot smell him past his Fury.

“I ain’t lost no one!” he cackles nervously. “I’m being the messenger! Just the messenger!”

“Bollughin’ boggletogs, he is. It’ll do no good to skin him alive,” Alice grumbles and Tarrant feels her hand press against his shoulder, urging him back. “A bath, however...”

“Unsanitary, baths,” Argur insists, warily watching Tarrant as he relents, permitting Alice to urge him back.

“Tell us what you _do_ know,” Alice instructs him. “How did this happen?”

“How should _I_ know?” he screeches.

Alice grits her teeth. “ _Where_ _ **exactly**_ did they disappear?”

“In the Orash orchard somewhere! That’s all I know!”

Alice glares at him for a moment and then turns toward the queen. “Your Majesty...”

“I need to speak to the king,” Mirana intones, sinking down into the nearest seat, which happens to be the bench at her vanity.

Alice crosses the room and gives her sovereign and friend a brisk but awkward embrace. “I’ll go find him and then we’ll sort this out.”

Tarrant can still feel her irritation and fear and aggression and worry but it is tempered with Determination now. Calm. She grasps his hand briefly with her own as she passes by and then marches out the door.

“D’ye mind if I help meself to some tea? It’s a thirsty walk from the Harbor,” Argur whines faintly.

Tarrant waves him toward the abandoned tea service. He notices that one teacup had been upset and is laying on its side, marinating in a saucer overflowing with milky tea. A slice of cake had been served (presumably to Alice) and yet is perfectly untouched. Yes, the queen must have just sat down with Alice for tea when Argur had been shown in...

“Your Majesty?” he asks softly, approaching the queen.

“Tarrant...” she whispers on a voiceless breath. “Tarra...”

He crouches down at her feet and collects her soft, limp hand in his. “Why was Tarranya in Crimson Harbor?” He can imagine many scenarios in which a young, energetic princess might run off with a lad... however, how an experienced soldier like Mally could also disappear at the same time... Well, _that_ suggests something far more foul than simple Play.

“There... there were rumors. Setteeson said,” the queen replies woodenly.

“What manner of rumors?”

“Muttermonging.”

Tarrant’s brows draw together. “Is that so? Against whom?”

“Me. The White Queen. Or so Setteeson said.”

He nods. “But that doesn’t explain what Tarra was doing... Oh. _Oh!_ ” _Twimble fumpt!_ But, no, no, he will not help the queen by cursing in silence! Tarrant gives himself a swift shake, blinks and returns his attention to the queen. Reluctantly, he seeks confirmation of his suspicion, “Tarra, being the current Queen’s Champion... Did she...?”

“ _We_ ,” the queen corrects him, closing her eyes on a shudder. “Dale and I let her go. To investigate. Under the guise of Setteeson’s apprentice.”

“... I see.” And he does. Finally. This is not a whimsical flight of young love or even fleeting fancy. _This_ is a right Mess, indeed. Alice’s apprentice has disappeared on a mission for the queen and now it will fall to Alice to... to...

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about it Too Much.

“Tarrant...”

He looks up at the queen and is startled to see tears trailing down from her dark eyes over her cheeks.

“Tarrant, I’m so sorry. I should not ask her – ask _you_ – to do this. Not after you’ve given so much to Underland. The both of you... Not after all the things I’ve taken from Alice... _your_ Alice... but Tarra... she’s my _daughter_. _Please_ , Tarrant!”

“We’ll find her,” he assures her, chafing the back of her cool, clammy hand with his own rough fingers. “Alice and I will do whate’er we must to bring her back teh ye. I swear.”

“Thank—”

And just as the promise is accepted, the office door bangs open with an undignified shriek from the doorknob and a bellow from the king:

“ _Mirana! What_ ’ _s this about Tarra?!_ ”

Tarrant stands and moves aside to make room for the king to speak to his wife. Mirana swallows back her fear and tears and explains the situation as steadily as she can, which is far more steadily and sanely than Tarrant would have been capable of in her position. Why, if _Tam_ had disappeared...!!

“Tarrant,” Alice whispers, pulling him toward the unoccupied balcony. Several paces away, Argur is destroying the tea service as if he expects it to be his last meal. No one pays him any mind.

“Alice,” he replies. “Alice, we must...”

“I know. We will. Both Tarra _and_ Mally. Although, I admit the thought of Mally being with Tarra – wherever they are and whatever trouble they are in – is a comforting one.”

He considers that and nods. Yes, dormice are unfailingly useful in Tight Spots.

Alice swallows and her fingers dig into his arm. “But Tam...?”

Yes, yes, of course! They cannot leave Tam unprotected while they seek out the queen’s missing daughter and their misplaced friend! “London,” he replies decisively.

Alice sighs out a long breath. She closes her eyes briefly. Nods. “Yes, that’s for the best. Under the circumstances.”

“He’ll be very upset with us for this. After the fact.”

“I imagine he will. Perhaps it will motivate him to choose a trade just to get away from his barmy parents.”

Tarrant giggles. “Alice. Now is _not_ the time to make jokes.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Which is why you are so very amusing, even under dire circumstances, Raven.”

Alice huffs out a breathy laugh.

“Champion Alice! I hope your good humor means you’ve thought of a plan for retrieving our daughter!”

Sobering, Alice turns and bows to the king who has placed his great, furry hands on his wife’s shivering shoulders. “Tarrant and I will depart immediately for Crimson Harbor,” she replies. “We’ll find her.”

“Yes,” Mirana contributes. “Tarrant has already promised as much.”

“Then you may expect us to deliver Tarra safe and well into your care.” Alice glances at Argur. “Be ready to head back in an hour.”

Crumbs splatter and tea-colored drool dribbles onto the tablecloth as he nods and snorts with nervous energy.

Tarrant reaches out and slides his palm up Alice’s arm. “If you will contact Margaret and speak to Sir Fenruffle and Tam, I’ll stop by the workshop – we’ll need more wearables for this. As will Tam. London is chilly this time of year, is it not? And then a visit to the armory is absolutely necessary. Do you have any specific preferences in the way of weaponry?”

“No, I trust your judgment.” He presses his lips to her temple and her hand clutches his wrist. When he steps back, he meets her gaze, shares what reassurance he possesses – shaky though it is – and then heads for the door.

“Your Majesties, if I might ask permission to open one of the castle looking glasses?” he hears Alice say as he steps out into the hall. Yes, Alice will arrange for Tam to escape this mess. Their son will not thank them for it when he realizes what they’ve done. Certainly, Tarrant would not have thanked his own Fa for such blatant manipulation! But, in time, he is sure that Tamial will forgive them. Yes, in Time...

Tarrant hurries back to the hat workshop, to the bolts of fabric and shirts and trousers and underthings he must make as quickly as possible. He thinks of the armory and plans his selections. He mustn’t forget the throwing knives and garrotes. For both himself _and_ his wife. Two Champions. Again.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tamial Hightopp – thwarted investigator of Uplandish intrigue and mystery – is thwarted no longer! He bites back a grin as his Mam explains with a slightly odd smile, “Sir Fenruffle said your scores were satisfactory and your Fa and I spoke about it...”

Yes, he can _taste_ victory! When she’d knocked on the door and asked for a private word with Sir Fenruffle, Tam had wondered... But then he’d seen her face and the expression had been... well, it had been something that had made him think of London and Win and a mysterious note and the death of Lowell Manchester and... He’d watched as she’d pulled up a chair and had sat down with a sigh. He’d been _a bit_ nervous, strangely enough. But her words had churned up murky hope and chaotic excitement and now he holds his breath and believes that – _any minute now! –_ she’s going to tell him...

“So we asked your aunt and uncle if the invitation to visit is still open...”

And _here it_ _ **comes!**  
_

“... and it is, so if you’d still like to visit Winslow...”

Tam fists his hands beneath the study desk and braces his feet against the legs of the chair to contain his enthusiasm. All week he’d been trying to figure out how to make this very thing Happen! Every spare, empty-house, alone moment this week, he’d spent in front of the mirror in his Fa’s hat workshop at the manor, trying to convince the glass to open to him. He’d even looked through every somewhat magical or ritualistic book in their small library! But he hadn’t given up. Not truly! Why, after finishing this stupid homework, he ’d planned to find his friends and get them to help him find a way to Upland. Surely they would know something – have overheard _something_ useful from Aunt Mirana – she _is_ always muttering to herself about magic _this_ and potion _that_ – yes, they’d know _something_ about looking glass travel! But all that scheming and sneaking may not be necessary at all! Unless he’s dreaming this, Tam is moments away from getting _permission_ to go back to London! And he _must_ get there! He’d promised Win he’d be there when his cousin investigates that note!

“Yes...” he says, his voice cracking with the excitement he’s trying to control.

Yes, he wants to visit Upland!

Yes, he wants to see Win!

Yes, he has Things to Do Up There!

And, yes, those Things are most certainly tasks suited to Tamial Hightopp – champion extraordinaire to his friends and most feared adversary to his foes!

His Mam concludes, “Then you’d better go get your bag. And be quick about it. The looking glass is open and waiting.”

Quick? He can do that!

Tam scrambles out of his seat and tears out of the library. Five minutes later, with his overnight bag in hand, his Fa is presenting him with a jacket that looks just-made. He frowns at it briefly. Something about the never-before-laundered stiffness of the cloth Bothers him. The niggling whisper is dashed to bits, though, as his Mam ruffles his hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

Tam grins: he’s really going back!

It’s almost too good to be true!

His Fa’s lips curve into a smile but his eyes are a concerned peridot green. Tam doesn’t take much note of his Fa’s worry. Fa _always_ Worries.

“Ye’d better ge’ goin’ afore we change our minds,” his Fa warns him.

Which is an _excellent_ point!

The good-byes are fast and sloppy, but Tam is too excited to care.

“Tell Lanny and Ian I’m sorry I couldn’t stay this time,” he instructs them.

“We’ll let them know,” his Mam promises. And then Tamial is stepping through the mirror and into his aunt and uncle’s house in the City. He clutches his bag, takes a deep breath and savors all the smells of the house: dust (coal dust, especially), the hint of smoke from the gas lamps which are currently unlit, books that don’t whisper, carpet that doesn’t curl up irritably if you stomp on it, draperies that don’t billow because the windows here are meant to stay Shut...

“Tamial,” Aunt Margaret says with a smile, putting aside a book and standing from her chair. “Welcome back.”

“It’s good to be back!” he declares, following her out of Uncle Hamish’s study. “What day is it? Where’s Winslow?”

Margaret laughs softly. “It’s Thursday, of course. Do the days occur in a different order in your country?”

Tam frowns at that. “Well, no...” But hadn’t he heard his Mam say once that Time is different in Underland? Muchier? He shrugs. It’s not important. Aunt Margaret is answering his second question.

“And Winslow is currently at his lessons with his tutor. I’m afraid you’ll have to accept other forms of entertainment until he’s finished for the day.”

“Oh... all right. Like what?”

“Well, Elaine is helping me with a quilt in the drawing room...”

Tam makes a face.

“And Townley is reading picture books to us.”

“That sounds...” Completely boring! “... nice.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” his aunt says, “or I suppose you could go up to the attic for me. I’ve been looking for a particular parasol that used to belong to your grandmother. I think it was put up there some time ago...” His aunt glances over her shoulder at him. “But you wouldn’t be interested in a job like that, would you?”

Hm... sit around watching quilts being stitched and listening to books for _children_ or an adventure in a dusty, spider-infested, creepy attic with boxes and crates and trunks to rummage through. _This_ decision he doesn’t need time to think about.

“I’d be happy to help you find that parasol, Aunt Margaret.”

“Thank you, Tam,” she says, showing him to his room with a dimple showing like the point at the end of the exclamation mark of her smile. “That’s very noble of you to accept.”

He likes being noble. He feels his chest puff up with pride. “My pleasure, Aunt Margaret.”

“Yes, well. You haven’t seen the attic yet. But come downstairs first to say hello and then we’ll get you started on that.”

Luckily, the greetings are brief since Tam and Laney don’t have any new rude remarks to exchange – it hasn’t even been a week since they’d last annoyed each other! – and Lee is buried in his book of nursery rhymes. It’s quite some time later – a scary iron mannequin, a cobweb-covered wooden loom, a trunk of men’s winter woolen underwear, and a yellowed wedding dress later to be exact – when his cousin finds him.

“Tam! You came!”

He grins cheekily. “I _told_ you I would!”

“I’ll never doubt you again!”

Tam laughs. And then he gets down to business. “So... do you still have the letter?”

“Of course. _And_ I found the streets on the map. We can take the Tube there.”

Tam forgets to ask what – precisely – the _Tube_ is when Win tells him how much the fare is and confides that he knows where Laney is currently keeping her pennies...

And, after that, there’s really only one question left to ask:

Tam wiggles his brows as he’s often seen his Fa do and demands, “When are we leaving?”

 


	6. The Secret of Crims

 

 _Tarranya has a Leif_.

Tarrant had said that to her once, a very long time ago. And it has never been more true.

Alice watches as the he-lion paces back and forth in the alley behind the Irondirk Smithery, a frightful scowl on his face. His dark mane is matted with bits of leaves and small twigs and patches of spider webs that he’d unwittingly snagged during his previous searches for Tarra or any trace of her. His golden eyes burn despite the sagging, thinly-pelted flesh surrounding them. His shoulders are tense but curved slightly downward. His feet scuff in the dirt with every other step. Alice wonders when he’d last slept. Or, rather, slept _well_.

Yes, indeed: Tarranya has a Leif. Completely and utterly despite the fact that his First Claw is still displayed on a thong around his own neck.

“Fumptwat,” Davon Irondirk mumbles, nodding toward the back door of his workshop. It stands open and every half dozen seconds or so, Leif paces past. “I told ’im teh keep ’is gruffious self outteh sight.” The former mercenary shakes his head, for once not at all amused. “He’ll ’ave naebodae teh blame but ’imself if’n this goes ’round tauwn.”

She doesn’t disagree. “When did he come to you? Or did you find him?”

“Th’ slurvish beast came teh me. Pounded on m’door a’ th’ mid’o’night.” Irondirk tucks his chin down and continues sheepishly. “When he told me he’d lost th’ king’s daughter, I said she was prob’ly goin’ a greenin’ wi’ a lad...”

Alice gives him a blank look at that term. Davon returns her stare with a grin that is _not_ frightening and painful to look at due to his broken and missing teeth but absolutely lascivious.

For a moment, Alice forgets the topic of conversation and marvels. This _particular_ grin had been made possible thanks to the queen and the boon Irondirk had asked of her in payment for his efforts in hunting down any and all traces of Valereth and Oshtyer years and years ago. He’d asked for an alchemedic remedy for his teeth. “I cannae expect a lass teh take me as husband wi’out a gehd set o’ teeth!” he’d explained in justification. And when Alice had seen the overwhelming amount of effort that Mirana had gone to in order to meet his request, she had realized just why he’d never had the temerity to ask for the cure before.

Thus, Alice receives one of Irondirks _new_ lascivious grins and _then_ she realizes what _greening_ must entail: grass and grass stains and the _activities_ that often lead to said grass stains and... Ah, yes.

Tarrant takes a half step closer to her and glares at Irondirk who, good humor somewhat restored, blithely continues with his narrative.

“Tha’ wasnae th’ thing teh be sayin’ as it turns out.” Davon smirks in the direction of the open door. “I d’nae think _that_ one’s here on the _king_ ’ _s_ business if’n ye catch me kenment.” He sighs. “Still, when he tol’ me th’ name o’ the lad she’d gone off wi’... well, he has tha’ sort o’ reputation, ye ken?”

Alice closes her eyes and wishes for patience or deliverance or just a plain old miracle. As tempting as it is to speculate on the issues between Leif and Tarra with Davon, they have more urgent matters to deal with at the moment. “Argur was not very forthcoming on the details of the... incident.”

“Well, ye ken Argur. ’Tis best if’n he o’ly ’as twine thoughts teh rub toge’her in ’is head at a time. Any more’n tha’ an’ they’d all likely go up in smoke. _Poof!_ ”

Again, she can’t disagree. At least Argur is making himself _somewhat_ useful by sniffing around at the docks, and keeping his eyes and ears open. Until Alice completely understands the situation, it’s best to post allies as far and as wide as possible.

“Tell me the rest.”

“Ye won’ like it,” Irondirk replies, his gaze shifting briefly in Tarrant’s direction. “In th’ neighborin’ days we been hearin’ a bit o’ mimsy muttermongin’ ’round th’ tauwn. Setteeson offered teh go teh th’ queen teh appraise her o’ it.”

“Yes, I heard that part from the queen.” Although she hadn’t realized Setteeson had been selected as a representative for a larger group of concerned citizens.

“Then ye’re kennin’ the lass’s role in aul o’ this?”

“Yes. But what were the rumors supposedly about?”

“’Twas ne’er uttered in _mae_ presence, but... I heard ’twas talk o’ a rebellion. A rising agains’ th’ White Queen.”

Alice frowns. Why had Mirana not told her _that?_ “On what grounds?”

“I d’nae ken.”

Tarrant says nothing. He does not even move from where he stands beside her, but she can Feel his concern and impatience. He wants to get started with the search. He ’s worried about Tarra, about Mally, about Alice herself... as usual.

She decides it would be best to gather _all_ the facts before they charge off into the orchards. “What were the circumstances of her disappearance?”

“Ar. Nauw _tha_ ’ ’tis th’ mystery, Lassling. If’n I understood tha’ frumious beast’s growls correctly, we’ve naught but a scent trail tha’ goes naewhere.”

Alice turns and regards Bayto who looks nearly as exhausted as Leif. “Is that true?”

He nods and replies on a thread of a whine. “Yes. I’ve sniffed everywhere. The most recent scent for either of them is in the orchard and it just... stops.”

“So, Mally was definitely with her at the time?”

He nods, his jowls swaying. “Either hiding in the picnic basket or... maybe in her pocket... or...”

“I’ll need you to show me the path Tarra took.”

“All right.” He glances worriedly toward the back door and the lion man still pacing in the alley. “I don’t suppose there’s a sidewise exit we could use?” he mutters at Irondirk. Alice silently seconds the request. Getting past Leif to speak to Irondork had been hard enough. The lion will Insist on following them when they leave to resume the search.

The Outlander snorts. “Daen’ we aul wish f’r one o’ them righ’ abou’ nauw.”

Bayto sighs and, with a longing glance at the front door which he knows he can’t use – it’s best to keep their presence here as inconspicuous as possible for the time being – the bloodhound slumps off toward the back door.

“An’ thar’s ano’her thing, Lassling,” Irondirk says under his breath. “Yer Tarra’s nae th’ only one missin ’. Many o’ th’ lads an’ lasses di’nae come back teh their shops af’er th’ Rest Day.”

“How many?”

“A fair few. Mayhap thrice a ha’f baker’s dozen.” He swallows and mutters in a low tone, “Includin’ me nephew. Th’ one wi’ th’ way o’... greenin’ th’ lasses.”

“The one Tarra was... last seen with?”

“Aye.”

“I see. Well, let’s just keep that to ourselves for the moment,” she mutters, doing her best not to glance in Leif’s direction.

“Much obliged, Lassling.”

“Yes, well. You’ll owe me for it, won’t you?”

“Wi’ pleasure,” he agrees happily and Tarrant is very obviously _not_ pleased with the man’s enthusiasm.

Alice rolls her eyes. The Outlander treats her like a toy; Tarrant cannot _seriously_ believe she would ever feel drawn to the fool. Can he? “Stop playing games. We didn’t rush all the way here to be delayed with small talk,” she reprimands him.

“Speakin’ o’ hastenly arrivals. Hauw _di_ ’ye ge’ere sae fast?”

“Bandersnatch.”

Davon snorts. “Och, nauw _tha_ ’ll b’makin’th’ rounds o’ th’ tauwn shortly.”

“No, it won’t,” Alice replies. “ _You_ didn’t see how we arrived. No one else did, either. Trust me.”

Indeed, Alice had sent Bandy off to sniff _around_ the borders of the orchards looking for any sign of Tarra. No one will see him that far from town. Although, if other searches are on-going...

“Is anyone else out looking for the missing youths?”

Irondirk shrugs. “M’be. Bu’ in neighborin’ days, it happens sometimes they boycott a bit o’ work nauw an’ then. Won’ be tae much concern o’er it... f’r nauw.”

“Good. All the better for picking up her scent.”

“Aye.”

They leave out the back door and, as Alice had anticipated, Leif follows them like a scowling, growling, grumpy shadow with teeth and claws. They keep to the alleys and the darker side of the buildings, crossing the street with caution. Sunset is less than an hour away; time and daylight are of the essence.

“Wait here,” Alice says to Leif and Irondirk. “Let’s give Bayto a clear line.”

“Alice...” Tarrant whispers and she can hear the request in his tone. No, he doesn’t want her to leave him behind. Not even for a moment.

She grasps his hand, uncaring that they’re working now, that they are not alone. “I’ll call,” she swears. Yes, when she needs him she will Call.

He doesn’t like it – not if his anxious peridot gaze is anything to go by – but he lets her hand slip from his.

“Lead the way, Bayto,” she says.

He does, muttering along the way. “Yes, yes, here she is. Right foot, left foot. Stepped in a Batten skin at some point. Very pungent... Right foot. Left foot...”

“Anything on the trees?” she asks, careful not to touch the trunks as she follows in his wake despite their inviting murmurings. Yes, Orash trees _do_ enjoy a good embrace from passers by. Perhaps that’s why there aren’t any in the White Queen’s garden: rather forward trees, truth be told.

“Nah. Nothing from Tarra,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by grass and fallen leaves and dropped fruit.

“How about the fellow she was with?”

“Oh, he touched almost everything.”

“Show me,” she requests and takes note of the trees Bayto points out.

Long minutes and about two hundred paces later, the blood hound announces, “This is it. End of the line.”

“Not for Tarra, I hope,” she murmurs, looking over the trees, studying the canopy and kicking aside pieces of decaying fruit with her boots.

“So... what should I do?”

“I’m not sure,” she admits, inspecting the last tree Irondirk’s nephew had apparently touched.

Bayto sits on the ground and whines. “Do you think they’re all right? Tarranya and Mally?”

“Mally would never let anything happen to Tarra,” Alice reassures him. “And Tarra is imminently capable.”

He sighs.

Alice peers at a knot on the tree. It is nestled between two perfectly healthy branches and something about it seems... She leans closer and studies it, taking in the chips and scratches that decorate it and the surrounding living trunk of the tree. The breeze brushes through her hair and it touches the bark of the tree and...

Alice notices how very... _quiet_ this tree is. It does not murmur as the others do. In fact, its branches do not even sway in her direction despite how very close she’s standing to it.

Yes, there is something not quite Right about this tree. She looks it over again and, upon further inspection, decides that the poor thing looks... stressed. It’s leaves are small, curled, and yellowed. Its fruit has fallen to the ground only half ripe and still as hard as conch shells on the beach of the Crimson Sea.

She considers concurring with Bayto, but what if he tells her she’s imagining this? No, she’s not ready to be dissuaded. Not when this is the only hint she’s found at all.

Alice returns her attention to the knot and runs her fingers over it. The tree, oddly enough, seems to stiffen, to brace itself. Feeling oddly like she’s invading on the tree’s personal space, Alice digs her nails into a particularly scratched crevasse. Despite the lack of leverage and with only the meager strength of her fingers, the knot... _shifts._

She stares at it for a moment before reaching for her knife. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to the tree which seems to sigh in pained resignation.

“Alice? What are you doing?” Bayto asks as she carefully inserts the blade into the crack around the tree’s scar tissue and wiggles it a bit.

“I think I’m...”

And then the knot pops up suddenly.

There’s a series of wooden clunks and metallic clicks that resonate up through the tree right before...

“ _Baaaaaw...!_ ” Bayto yelps and Alice gapes at the dark hole where the earth beneath had quite unexpectedly given way beneath him.

“Bayto!” she calls, wedging her knife beneath the fake knot to stop it from snapping back into place, and dives for the hole.

She blinks down into the darkness. It is totally, absolutely, completely _black_ down there and she suspects that were it the middle of the afternoon and the sun were shining directly down upon them, that fact would not be changed.

“Bayto!” she hisses and her voice echoes back to her. “Are you all right?”

Her heart line twinges; Tarrant had felt her startle. She Calls him and sends a sheepish apology along as well. Her first reaction should have been to summon him but she’d been so surprised by Bayto’s disappearance and...!

“Eugh. I’m fine. Sort of.”

“Sort of? Are you injured or not?”

“Well... no, but it _reeks_ down here, Alice. I think this was a sewer... once.”

Alice frowns. “How far down are you? I can’t see you.”

He huffs a bit as if expending considerable effort at something. “Well, I can’t jump back out,” he says after a moment. “And, I’m sorry, Alice, but I’d _really_ like to get out of here. The stench is burning my nose.”

“Help is coming,” she promises him.

“Help is ’ere,” Tarrant announces, kneeling next to her at the mouth of the hole. He reaches up to remove his hat, his fingers twitching in the air before he obviously remembers that he had purposefully left it behind at Mamoreal for safe keeping. Alice’s heart twinges in sympathy; it’s been a long time since they’ve found themselves in a situation Not Suited To Hats.

He swings his legs over the edge and Alice places a hand on his arm. “We don’t know how deep it is.”

He nods and then pushes himself into the abyss.

“Nauw _this_ be a shrifty mechanism,” Irondirk muses, looking over the knot and Alice’s knife which is still holding it up.

“Leif! One or two paws’ worth of assistance would be appreciated!” Tarrant calls.

Without a word, the lion drops down into the subterranean realm.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Alice asks Irondirk as the sounds of Bayto’s rescue proceed without any undue exclamations or suspicious silences.

“Nae. Ne’er.” He lifts the lantern he’d brought with him and attempts to shed a bit more light on the conundrum than what is provided by the lowering sun.

Alice returns her attention to the hole as Bayto’s head bobs up into view. She reaches out, grasps him under his doggy elbows, and pulls him to safety.

“Thanks...” he breathes, inhaling deeply. “It’s _rank_ down there. Blood and decay and moldy bones.”

“Do you smell it?” she calls down, concerned.

“No,” Tarrant replies after a moment. “True, it’s not... _pleasantly_ aromatic down here, but it doesn’t distract from the darkness, which I feel is a challenge more deserving of attention at the moment.”

“Leif?” Alice checks.

“I’m fine,” he grunts.

Alice leans back and reaches a hand out to Irondirk. “Your lantern,” she demands. He obliges and she passes it down. She only has to lean over a bit – until her elbow dips below the rim – before someone takes it from her.

“Thank you, Alice.”

“What do you see?” she asks, curious and concerned.

“A... tunnel, I believe,” Tarrant says, his voice changing slightly in pitch as he pivots first one way and then the other. “Yes. Lined with stones. A bit of muck at the bottom, of course, as tends to be the case with dark tunnels. And here is the ground... no, door... no, hole opening latchings,” he continues, finally settling on a phrase that he feels satisfactorily describes the hidden entrance. “Ah... rather brilliant!”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Alice grins at her husband’s enthusiasm.

“Tarra’s down here,” Leif interrupts. “Let’s go.”

“No, no! Just a moment!” Tarrant declares. “Alice, release the latch up there. I will attempt to open it from the inside.”

She hesitates. She doesn’t like the thought of leaving her husband down there, of locking him in the ground, but his suggestion makes too much sense – vital sense! – for her to refuse. “All right.”

Alice looks over her shoulder at Irondirk and nods for him to do the honors. The tree winces as he pulls the knife free. Suddenly, the ground swings up and snaps into place with a soft _thud!_ Alice stares as the clumps of scraggly grass and hard-packed dirt make a perfect camouflage for the trap door. Behind her, the tree lets out a sigh of relief. The poor thing.

She only has to wait a moment before the ground begins to give again, opening.

“Success!” Tarrant announces, sounding quite proud of himself. And Alice has to admit he deserves every bit of his own pride... and hers as well.

Irondirk moves closer and crouches at the edge of the hole. “A canal,” he decides with a thoughtful look. “From th’ ol’ moat. If’n I’m recollectin’ rightly, it runs out teh Gummer Slough.”

“Not the sea?” Alice asks, a little startled.

“No,” Tarrant replies, his voice rough with a growl fueled by the Past. “Wouldnae wantae spoil th’ view.”

“Aye,” Davon agrees. “Sae... nauw whot, Lassling?”

Alice thinks for a moment. And then;

“Bayto, I need you to find the Bandersnatch and tell him to locate the end of this tunnel in the swamp.”

“About time,” Leif grumbles.

“Alice?” Tarrant asks, clearly Worried about the lack of daylight to guide them out of the tunnel at either end and their lack of provisions for an extended search. “Are you sure _now_ is the best time for a rescue mission?”

The lion growls. “How would you feel if it were Alice missing?”

“I _know_ how I’d feel, Cat.”

Yes, Tarrant has been in Leif’s position before. Alice hastily speaks up before More can be said. “Yes, I’m coming down. We’re going to see where this thing goes.” She turns to her companion. “Davon, come with us. You’ll probably know whomever we meet down there...”

He sighs. “If’n this be where th’ lot o’ them ha’been takin’ off teh, aye.”

“Bayto, after you find Bandy, go back to Mamoreal and tell the queen about this. Also, ask Sir Fenruffle to find the old Salazen Grum drawings. There may be more tunnels.” Or, if this mission goes _very_ badly, they may be requiring a bit of rescuing themselves, but Alice doesn’t mention that. Still, from the pulse of frantic worry- _fear-_ _ **denial-determination!**_ she Feels around her heart, she knows that Tarrant has once again understood what she had left unsaid.

“Find the Bandersnatch. Tell him to find the tunnel exit in the Slough. Go back to Mamoreal. Tell the queen. Ask Sir Fenruffle to find the castle plans. Got it.”

“Good.” Alice watches as Irondirk pushes himself over the edge of the hole. She sends Bayto a brief smile. “Fairfarren,” she bids him and then she, too, disappears into the darkness.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

It’s a full day for Tamial Hightopp – Upland adventurer and conspiracy seeker of the Great City of London!

The when had been decided: during Aunt Margaret’s customary afternoon high tea with her embroidery club.

The how had been declared and means obtained: surely Laney won’t be counting her pence in the very _near_ future!

All that had been left had been to sneak out of the house – an easy task with Tam supposedly still searching for that parasol and Win purportedly keeping him company – and then transport themselves to the intersection on Win’s letter.

“We’ll take the Tube to Victoria Station and then make an appearance at Green Park. That way, if my father realizes we’re gone and asks where we went, we can say we were there the whole time. I’ll be sure to say hello to someone I know.”

Simple enough.

Tamial, however, is still stuck on the actual _How_ part of the From-Here-To-There Plan.

Well, that and the _smell._

“Eugh, Win. This air is _foul_.”

“Is it?” His cousin sniffs audibly even as Tam coughs into his jacket sleeve. “I suppose I don’t notice it so much. Of course, after spending last weekend in the country, I noticed it when we arrived. But I thought it got... better since then.”

“More likely _you_ ’ _ve_ gotten more foul to match it,” Tam mutters. Win doesn’t appear to have heard him.

They dodge shoppers and businessmen and cringe away from shouting stall minders. Horses and carriages clatter and splash through the muddy streets and Tam tries not to look too closely at the collection of brownish green muck that has collected in the gutters and next to the curb.

“So,” he says, raising his voice to a near shout in order to compete with the noise. “What’s this tube thing we’re taking?”

“You don’t have one where you come from?” Win asks imperiously. “It’s the very _height_ of sophistication.”

“Sophistication in _what?_ ” Tam demands with a frown, not liking Win’s superior airs.

“Town travel, of course. D’you think I’d tromp through block after block of _this_ mess?” he asks rhetorically, waving a hand at the smelly, rain-soaked muck on the streets.

“Well, I wasn’t so sure about _you_ , but _I_ wasn’t looking forward to it,” he replies honestly. A taxi cab stands waiting on the curb and the nag hitched to lifts its tail and does his shukm _right there on the street!_

“Gross!” Tam declares, averting his eyes. “And what’s all this black stuff all over everything? It looks like smoke. Was there a fire here?”

Win glances back at him and blinks. Tam gestures helpfully to one particularly noticeable example. “Oh,” his cousin says, continuing down the busy, grimy sidewalk. “That’s probably from the factories. They burn coal, you know. To heat the furnaces to melt metal and so forth.”

“Oh. That stuff.” He’d been meaning to ask about that. Yes, he’d seen buckets and baskets of that sort when he’d visited his aunt and uncle and cousins with his Mam and Fa... but... “Aren’t fires usually full of wood bits?”

“Huh? Oh, well the ones at the country estate are, yes.” Win pauses and glances back with a thoughtful expression. “I forgot; you haven’t actually been to the London house in a long time.”

Yes, their holiday visits are always made to the country estate. Tam rarely comes Up Here with his Mam and Fa for tea with Aunt Margaret or Uncle Hamish; Winslow is always in the middle of his lessons during those visits. Tam nods. “Maybe when Lee was a baby?”

Win sighs wistfully. “Ah, the good old days. I think I actually liked him a bit before he could walk. It’s hard to remember that far back, though.”

Tam giggles.

“So, you don’t have coal _either_ in your country? Iplam, was it?”

“Yes. Iplam. And no, we don’t have coal. We use fallen sticks and tree trimmings. You know, from their seasonal pruning.” And, really, if coal manages to turn everything black and gritty, Tam will be happy to continue right on _not_ using it.

“Seasonal _what?_ ” Win asks. Perhaps he hadn’t heard Tam over the clamor in the streets.

“Their pruning!” he repeats. “They get mighty irritated if they have to bud without it in the spring.”

Win stops in the street and looks at him. “Your mother and father get irritated, you mean.”

“No. The trees.” He takes in Win’s incredulous expression and ventures, “Trees don’t get irritated here?”

“If they do, they can’t do or say much about it.”

“That’s... odd.” Why hadn’t he noticed this before at the country estate? Plenty of trees _there!_

With a wary look, Win resumes their trek. After another block of dodging black-cloaked businessmen and bustle-burdened ladies, Win leads Tam into a building and announces, “This is it. The Tube. C’mon. We have to buy our tickets.”

Tam watches his cousin make the necessary purchases and then follows him through the gates and out to a platform. They only have to wait a few minutes before their transportation arrives.

“It’s a locomotive!” Tam exclaims.

“Oh, you mean you actually have one of these things where you live?”

Tam scowls. “Well, not _right_ where I live, but we have one. It was started just a couple of years ago. I guess there used to be one a long time ago but the Red Queen got rid of it.” He scrunches his nose and tries to remember the details of that history lesson.

“The _who?_ ” his cousin demands, eyebrows arced and eyes wide.

Tam sighs. “Never mind.” It’s time to focus on the adventure at hand, anyway, so he does.

The Plan goes swimmingly – according to Win, who manages to identify several people he says are associates of Uncle Hamish’s in Green Park – and Tam finds himself being introduced to a lord and lady, a partner in a company that often employs Uncle Hamish’s ships, and a banker (whatever _that_ is... but it _appears_ to be a rather stuffy and humorless man with a wide mustache and a very boring top hat).

Win narrates their path as they trek along. “This is Piccadilly,” he informs Tam with a gesture to the wide, sloppy, and busiest-that-Tam-has-seen-yet street. “And that one there is Stratton. And here’s Bolton... Ah! Finally! Here’s Clarges Street.”

They take their lives into their hands and risk splashing mud and horse shukm all over their trousers when they dash across the street, taking advantage of a break in traffic. Tam laughs out loud at the thought of what his Mam and Fa would have to say about _that!_ And then he sobers when he considers the punishment he would no doubt get for such an act. Oddly enough, in that moment, Tam thinks of the Red Queen again. And of the Jabberwocky and Iplam and his Fa. Tam cannot imagine that scene. He tries to compare Krystoval to the illustrations of the black, skeletal beast in his textbook. He tries to comprehend that the burnt and barren plain he’d seen a sketch of at the Mamoreal Red War Memorial had been Iplam. He just... can’t.

“You coming?”

Tam jerks back to the present, to his cousin and their quest. “Of course.”

They head down Clarges Street and Tam wishes for more pairs of eyes so that he might be able to absorb _everything_ as they pass by. There are bookstores and haberdasheries and pharmacies and law offices and bookkeeping services – although why you would need one of those, Tam isn’t sure... perhaps it’s for people who don’t have enough library space for all their books?

Win puts a hand on his sleeve and tugs him to a halt when they arrive at the corner.

“This is the place,” he announces.

Tam takes a look around from his vantage point on the southwest corner of the crossroads. They examine each of their four options. One is a dressmaker’s. Another is a flower shop. The third is a moneylender’s. The final option looks like a... things store.

They cross the street – this time with much less danger and daring – and peer in through the windows of the Things Shop. Tam looks up at the sign and reads: Marston & Eagle Secondhand Goods.

“It’s a pawn shop,” Win says, studying the display in through a window that is in dire need of a scrubbing.

Tam frowns. “I don’t seen any pawns.” Or bishops, or rooks, or knights.

Win rolls his eyes. “You won’t. A pawn shop is where people bring their valuables and sell them.”

“Why would they sell their valuables?”

“Because they need money.”

“Why?”

Win huffs. “ _Why?_ ” He snorts. “Maybe because it’s _useful?_ ” Win shakes his head. “You’re not going to tell me that there’s no money in your country, are you?”

Well, with Win sporting an attitude like _that_ what would be the point?

“Come on,” his cousin says, pulling him away from the shop’s front door. “This is the place.”

“How do you know?”

Win nods toward the window. “Did you see the newspapers? It’s the same edition as the one I was sent. This is the place.”

“Then how come we’re walking _away_ from it?”

“Maybe because I was told to come alone?” Win reminds him.

“Oh. Right.” Tam considers that. “But I promised I’d be there when you meet... whoever it is.”

“And you will. We just have to find a way to get you inside the shop without anyone seeing.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“With...” Tam drags him around the side of the shop and into a narrow but surprisingly clear alley. “... the use of the rear entrance.” Win gestures grandly at the door which displays a small, tasteful plaque: _M &E – Distinguished Customers_’ _Entrance._

Tam gapes at the door and then at his cousin. And then:

“You’ve been here before!” Tam accuses, feeling hurt that Win hadn’t waited for him to share the adventure.

Win narrows his eyes. “Well, yes, I’ve been to this neighborhood before. A few months ago Grandfather Manchester brought me here to show me the new company showroom. But I’ve never been _here_ before.”

“Then how’d you know where the door would be?”

“Because pawn shops always have a back door. So nobody gossips about lord such-and-such selling his father’s sterling pocket watch to cover his card game debts. Discretion is very important to grown-ups,” Win informs him. “That’s what my grandfather told me.”

“Discretion. Right. So, what do we do?”

“ _You_ are going to wait across the street, _there_. _I_ ’ _ll_ go in first and let you in when I can.”

Tam shakes his head. “I don’t like it. We go in together and I hide.”

“Hm. That does sound better, actually. Ready?”

“Sure.” Although he doesn’t think he really is.

But then there’s no time for doubts: Win is opening the door, causing the small attached bell to ring, and Tam is following him down a narrow, unpainted hall to the first open door. His pulse is pounding; his hands are sweating.

He needs to find a place to hide _before_ the shop proprietor comes back to investigate his newly arrived customer... and finds not one, but _two._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Tam explains how people in Underland burn sticks and windfall and the branches that are pruned from the trees to heat their homes. This may not seem like much but, remember, Underland winters are not as cold are Upland ones because, in Underland, they have several days (and nights) at a time for warmth. This is a concept taken from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass. I imagine, though that the days and nights are longer to compensate so that the same amount of time passes in Upland as it does in Underland while the Correspondence Mirrors are open between Alice and her sister.
> 
>  
> 
> 2\. Also, don’t forget: there is no standard money in the White Queen’s land, so the concept of money is pretty unfamiliar to Tam... as well as the purpose of a bank or a banker.
> 
>  
> 
> 3\. Here is the map I used for the subway stations: http://www.flickr.com/photos/33957578@N07/
> 
> And I cross-referenced that with this map of 1859 London to guesstimate where the closest stop to Clarges St. and Bolton E. was: http://www.ph.ucla.edu/epi/snow/1859map/map1859_m-v_1-12.html
> 
> (Tam visits London in 1881 or thereabouts.)


	7. Broken Compass

 

He’d _told_ them they were going the wrong way.

They hadn’t listened.

Leif glowers at the lot of them as they pull up short in front of the masonry blocking their path. He folds his arms over his chest and swallows back the four words that are clawing at the back of this throat:    
_I told you so._

“Well,” the Hatter says with forced cheer. “You were correct, Leif. We won’t find Tarra on the castle side of the canal.” He tilts his head to the side and studies the abrupt end of their northward path. “I still maintain that it would have been rather poetic to find a band of revolutionaries encamped on the site of the slackush castle of Crims.”

Alice turns, following the lantern light as Irondirk pivots to retrace their path. “Perhaps they don’t appreciate poetry much,” she offers.

The Hatter scoffs. “Amateurs. _All_ revolutionaries worth a mention in the history of history are noted for their poetry. Why, when _I_ was the head of the Resistance, there was a Place for poetry and rhymes and look how far _that_ brought us!”

“Shut it and leave it, Hatter. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s nothing here,” Leif announces on a growl, stomping along in the too-slowly moving glow of the lantern. “And in case you’ve _forgotten_ , were are _still_ looking for someone.”

“Two someones,” the Hatter has the nerve to correct him. “And I still say that poetry is exponentially helpful in the case of resisting tyranny.”

“That is utter nonsense.”

“Nonsensery is also a valuable asset to the aspiring rebel. I assure you.”

Alice cuts through Leif’s snarl: “I find that _very_ reassuring.”

Leif just shakes his head and holds out a paw for the lantern. Irondirk hands it over without a word of protest. Miracle of miracles.

Miracles. Yes, he wouldn’t mind experiencing an example of that particular phenomenon right about now. Leif wouldn’t say _No_ to having Tarra safe and sound in her chambers at Mamoreal, all this Champion business forgotten and everything back to _normal._

And while he’s at it, why doesn’t he just wish for Tarra to stay six years old forever? Things had been so _simple_ then. Or had they?

Leif frowns as he considers barefoot tea parties and hastily assembled search posses for lost wooden swords and...

 _Why_ couldn’t Tarra have stayed that way forever? The Tweedles are certainly giving that very goal their best combined effort. Those boys haven’t aged a day since they’d left school and refused to return, had refused any and all responsibility not related to games and adventure and arguments. They had _lost_ themselves in childhood.

But Tarra had never tried. She’d always reached for more. She’d always pushed herself to be stronger, braver... more.

And he had let her.

Leif grits his teeth and breathes out a snarl. Damn his selfish soul, he had _let_ her.

  
_Dale is right._

But of course he is. Of course he is right: Tarra had _made_ herself into a mate worthy of the King’s Champion. She had chosen _him._ And he had let her.

  
_Unforgivable._

He cannot remember when it had happened, exactly, _when_ he had started _wanting_ that brash little princess to be his friend. He cannot remember when he had decided to be hers. Somehow, it had happened, though. One slowly passing day at a time they had fallen into a trap of sorts... and Leif had not noticed until she had donned the uniform of the Queen’s Champion, had smiled up at him with unmistakable pride and daring, had grown up...

… and had awakened a completely different kind of Wanting within him.

Leif remembers _that_ moment. He had never been so horrified in his entire life. And he had certainly never expected to feel such shame. Unlike when he had betrayed his family to save Alice’s life on the battlefield, Leif had been unable to summon up even a twinge of righteousness, of honor. He had looked at Tarra – his Tarrash’rya! – and it had destroyed him.

Only later had he begun to realize the _why_ of it.

He’d avoided the truth as long as possible. He had hoped Alice and the queen’s ruse to dissuade her from her chosen path would work. And only when it had become obvious that Tarra would sooner give up on _him_ than becoming a Champion, only when he had realized she will do _anything_ to prove herself, only when Dale had confronted him with his crimes – committed in ignorance, but crimes nonetheless! – had Leif finally faced the Truth.

 _He_ is the one who has allowed Tarra to come to this end.

And he will never forgive himself for it.

Nor can he forgive Alice for agreeing to train Tarra to be the next Champion. He has seen what the role had done to Alice. She _knows_ the pain and suffering it entails. His heart aches to think of Tarra facing those horrors.

  
_When she does, it will be your fault._

There is no arguing with the Truth, so he doesn’t even try.

“Leif,” Alice whispers. “Calm down. Your breaths are echoing.”

He wants to shout at her about the ridiculous order of her priorities: how can she _care_ about the loudness of his breaths when they have not yet found Tarra?!

But his Better Sense stays his tongue. He clenches his jaw, nods, and focuses on taking shallow, measured breaths. The danger has not passed, after all. Tarra is down here, _somewhere_ , and they need to find her... without risking her life in the process.

He imagines all manner of unpleasantness: Have they bound her? Are they intending to hold her hostage? Has that blighter Masonmark dared to    
_touch her?_

Alice bumps his arm and the lantern wobbles.

He renews his focus.

Irondirk’s stomach growls.

The Hatter counts off the paces left to their entry point under his breath in a lisping hiss. And, not for the first time, he has to admit that – in the Hatter’s case, at least – madness and brilliance are a pair well-suited to each other. As with all first-time journeys, the return trip seems much faster than the initial venture into the unknown.

According to the continuing countdown, they are only thirty paces away from the entrance that leads up to the orchard when, ahead, something flickers in the darkness. Even before Alice throws out an arm, Leif has skidded to a halt.

“Torches,” she mouths as a second then a third point of light glow to life in the distance.

Leif fumbles with the lantern, tries to turn down the flame before the approaching group notices, but his fingers are too broad and the mechanism too delicate. He reluctantly thrusts the lantern in Irondirk’s direction.

“Put it out!” he growls.

“It’s a Long-light Lantern,” he protests. “Won’ go out sae laung as it’s dark.”

Leif curses and moves the lantern behind him, trying to dampen the light. The Hatter takes it from him and there’s the sound of fabric flaring and then darkness falls.

“’Twill start burning through m’jacket soon,” he warns them. Leif crouches down and scuttles toward the wall. He can hear the others doing likewise.

“Retreat,” Alice orders as the sound of footsteps echo toward them.

Leif shakes his head. “ _No._ ” This may be their only chance. They will have the aid of Surprise. They might be able to end this _now –_ _ **right now!**_ _–_ and that is something he cannot back away from!

And then, suddenly, the torch bearers are close enough to be illuminated. Leif recognizes them even though he does not know their names. He’s seen them around town, in taverns and exchanging friendly, harmless greetings with Masonmark.

They look neither friendly nor harmless now.

They plow through the muck with practiced ease. The torchlight reflects off of the long knives they carry on their belts. Leif remains perfectly still; they have not noticed their uninvited guests yet.

And, of course, because he’d dared to think it...

“Sommun’s been ’ere!” a young man says, stopping and lowering his torch to the ground. Several others briefly study the tracks in the grime. (Perhaps there had been a symbol drawn into the muck that they had disturbed? Or perhaps it is their boots that are unfamiliar? But no! Leif realizes what it is they must be seeing: Bayto’s footprints. Of course! How _stupid_ of him to neglect that!)

“Bloddy bulloghin’ brangergain! Search the tunnel,” a young man curses and commands. Leif recognizes Masonmark’s voice. He looks past the line of torchlight and spots the blighter... as well as the long knife in his hand and his grasp on Tarra’s unresisting arm.

“We can’t permit them to take the queen’s daughter,” the bastard reminds his fellows.

Leif bites back a curse. Luckily, the growl that emerges is camouflaged by Tarra’s protest: “You’ll find out precisely what the queen’s daughter _can and will do_ if you don’t stop trying to manhandle me!”

Even though her burst of bravery soothes him, reassures him that she is still herself and well and unbeaten, Leif tenses. His paw inches toward his scimitar. His gaze moves over the approaching adversaries. They are children – nothing but _children!_ – but they have Tarra!

What choice does that leave him except the only one he can bear to live with?

The scent of smoke, of smoldering fabric, reaches his nose an instant before the Hatter unveils the lantern and flings it toward the group. Gasps echo and bounce back and forth in the the small space. Bodies dive and stumble aside. Leif makes his move. He can hear Alice beside him as they race into the throng along the path the tossed lantern had cleared for them. There’s a brief flash of light on steel and he knows she has drawn her broad sword.

There is no time for dwelling on the Hatter’s brilliance – for in _throwing_ the lantern away from them and into the group, he had preserved the mystery of their numbers and their identities – if Leif intends to take full advantage of the situation. And he most definitely does!

Fear freezes many of these young, inexperienced fighters in place as he and Alice bully through. Most have not even thought to draw their knives. Leif swings the scimitar, knocks the long knife from Masonmark’s hand even as Alice grabs Tarra’s arm.

For an instant, they are victorious.

And then...

“Fight! Stop them!” Masonmark screams and there’s a flurry of motion in the flickering torchlight. Somehow, Alice loses her grip on Tarra’s arm.

Masonmark retreats, stumbling and splashing, into the shadows with his hostage.

Leif glimpses Alice’s pursuit and then an instant later, a blur of shirtsleeves and auburn hair as the Hatter sprints after her. Leif turns to follow but comes up against a circle of blades.

He pauses, glances over his shoulder and past the knives being presented to his back. Irondirk has been backed against the wall, his sword at his side. Of course the bastard doesn’t want to fight. Neither does Leif! Their foes are nothing but _children_ , after all!

But Tarra...

  
_Tarra!_

His fingers tighten around the scimitar. His gaze turns toward the darkness into which his Tarrash’rya has disappeared.

He can fight, true. And he can kill...

But these are children.

Leif cannot permit himself to cross this line. But the roar of fury...

That he does not deny himself.

It thunders down the tunnel, unsettling the knife-wielding obstacles in his path, but they do not drop their weapons. And he will be of no use to Tarra or the king or queen dead or injured.

His growls are composed of Shuchish curses as he stares into the darkness, unable to do anything more than _hope_ that Alice and the Hatter will succeed where he has failed. And that, one day, Tarra may forgive him for surrendering without a fight.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Alice is not happy. Not at all. Not with Leif – the idiotic _male!_ (How could he think they could possibly win against so many and on enemy territory?) She is not happy with herself – why hadn’t she thought to rub out their tracks in the muck!? She is not happy with Tarrant – he could be charging right into a poised sword blade right along with her in this echoing darkness! She is not happy with Tarra – what is stopping her apprentice from dealing with Masonmark herself? Leif had knocked away young man’s knife and even if Masonmark _does_ have another weapon in his possession Alice does not doubt that Tarra is fully capable of freeing herself!

Unless...

She slips, skids, abrades her hand against the rough, grimy wall and regains her balance. Tarrant’s free hand gropes for her in the dark – finding first her elbow, then her wrist – but she’s moving again before he can pull her right along with him.

She tries to remember how many youths had been in the group returning to the orchard entrance. Had that been all of the missing apprentices and shop assistants from Crimson Harbor or are they being lead into another group? She digs in her pocket for a handkerchief and covers her mouth, muffles her breath in order to hear the racing footsteps ahead of them more clearly.

She listens carefully to the rhythm of their quarry’s flight, hopes any irregularities will be enough to alert them to traps – trip wires, garrotes, or other obstacles – set up for the expressed purpose of injuring the uninitiated.

Alice wonders if Tarrant has been counting their paces. It’s likely. They race perhaps for what seems like a Very Long Time but must not be too far because she is not winded yet before Alice can finally make out... _something_ ahead.

She wants to ask what it is, that odd grayish glow – it cannot be the end of the tunnel and Gummer Slough... it’s too soon for that to be possible! – but refrains. No, she needs all the breath she can spare at the moment. Questions are a luxury she cannot afford.

Abruptly, the sounds of the footsteps ahead of them change: soften to muffled thumps, pound to a halt, swish on a pivot.

Alice hears the unmistakable clatter of metal-on-metal.

She tosses aside her handkerchief and transfers her sword to her scraped hand. With the other, she reaches out and catches Tarrant’s shirtsleeve. He jogs to a halt beside her. She pushes him insistently toward the wall nearest to him. The heart line twinges but he moves silently in the direction she’d indicated. Alice mirrors him, taking up position against the opposite wall, and advances toward the faint illumination.

As she moves closer, listening so hard in the darkness she thinks she can hear the sound of her own ears working furiously, Alice realizes that the light is coming from outside. There is a hole in the ceiling of the tunnel and the moon is out tonight. There is sand beneath her feet and the remains of a campfire beneath the light itself.

She moves carefully, feeling with her hand and feet, sword held at the ready. Somewhere in the darkness, Tarrant moves with equal silence and caution. Somewhere in the shadows, Tarra’s abductor is lurking... with Tarra in his grasp.

How does he expect to win?

He can’t. Not burdened with a hostage.

Unless...

Alice twitches her chin to the side. Denies the thought. Now is _not_ the time for it. Later... she will think on what has occurred _later._

And then a whistling _whoosh!_ cleaves the silence. Alice ducks an instant before she deduces – thanks to the slight spike of alarm and quick pulse of determination over her heart – that the attack had not connected with its intended target. She realizes a moment later, as light explodes in the center of the room, that the whistle and whoosh had been the tossing of a Fire Cracker and the subsequent ignition in the campfire ring.

The biscuit does its job, illuminating the tunnel in a glow that grows steadily brighter. Alice will think about flammable snack items and the three-second rule pertaining to dropped food later. Yes, later, she’ll marvel at the Underlandish-ness of Fire Crackers.

Right    
_now..._

She keeps her attention localized even as two shadows converge on the opposite side of the tunnel with a crash of steel: Tarrant has found Masonmark. Alice forces her gaze away from the ghastly shadows striking out at each other against the illuminated tunnel wall. The malformed images and the very real bodies that are producing them have the power to mesmerize her if she permits herself to even acknowledge their existence. She makes a decision to trust Tarrant to handle Masonmark and _she_ looks for Tarra.

And finds her.

She opens her mouth to call her name...

And spends much of that breath dodging a tossed bedroll.

“ _Tarra!_ ” she gasps.

Her apprentice replies with a very sharp, very _long_ drawn sword. A claymore by the look of it.

The alarm Alice feels as Tarra advances with purposeful steps, her eyes flashing, is not her own. It’s Tarrant’s.

 _Concentrate on your own opponent!_ she Demands. _And trust me to handle mine!_

“ _Alice!_ ” Tarrant hisses, perhaps misinterpreting her heart line message. He rather frantically blocks Masonmark’s next thrust.

Irritated with herself and concerned for him, Alice makes an effort to Send him a measure of calm. In order to do that, however, she must first _be_ calm. Alice demands it of herself before the situation can slide into more dire territory.

“Tarra, what do you think you’re doing?” Alice inquires, stepping over a bedroll, her sword poised in front of her.

Tarra pursues. “What does it _look_ like, Champion?” she replies with a mocking smile.

Alice’s eyes narrow. She listens as Tarrant smacks aside another attack from Masonmark and keeps her eyes on her apprentice. “It _looks_ like you’re experiencing a very Serious Error in Judgment.”

“Does it? That’s... interesting.” Her apprentice cocks her head to the side. “Although not very surprising. You never were strong enough to go against my mother.”

“And you fancy yourself in that role now?”

“What do _you_ think?”

“I think that sword’s too big for you, Squimkin.”

Tarra hisses through gritted teeth, “I am not a child. As you well know.”

“Then why are you doing this? We’ve come to take you _home._ ”

“ _Home?_ ” Tarra sneers. “Where my every move is watched? Where my every decision is _controlled_ by that damn Soul Bond? My mother holds no power over me _here_ , away from _her._ And neither do you!”

And with that declaration she attacks.

Alice meets Tarra’s blade with her own. They circle, charge, and clash. Alice takes note of the cloak Tarra still wears. She takes note of the determination and aggression in Tarra’s expression and form. Clothing that can tangle around you in a fight; an overly emotional state of mind: all are mistakes that Tarra _ought_ to know better than to make after all this time.

Alice gives ground as Tarra charges. In the hearth ring, the Fire Cracker flares. Soon, without any kindling to feed it, it’ll burn itself out and they’ll be cursed to darkness again. And Alice and Tarrant had better be pointed in the direction of an exit when that happens. And, as the orchard exit is... occupied at the moment, only one other option is available.

When Tarra swings high, Alice ducks under her arm, rolls in the foul-smelling sand and comes up on her feet. Now, to her back is the end of the tunnel that leads to Gummer Slough and, hopefully, the Bandersnatch. Tarra pivots before Alice can do more than find her center of gravity and sends her sword arcing toward Alice’s throat.

She jerks her upper body and chin back even as she brings up her broad sword and Tarrant shouts her name and there’s a _clang!_ and a clatter. Someone has just lost his weapon. She hopes that person isn’t her husband.

 _“I_ ’ _m all right!”_ he Sends.

Alice slides her blade under Tarra’s and flips it up. Tarra doesn’t lose her grip, however. She follows the blade’s momentum, is turning back for another go at Alice’s throat...

And then Tarrant is _There_. Right there coming between them!

Alice curses him through the heart line as he knocks Tarra’s attack away and then...

Suddenly, his body jerks and Alice’s heart jumps up into her throat and Chokes her. The heart line burns for a moment before going numb... then turning cold... icy... brittle.

Alice shivers and Tarrant stumbles back into her. She raises her sword and defends him as best she can as his sword arm drops. She curls her body around his as he flinches in on himself. The force of Tarra’s continued assault jars her and she has to strain her muscles to keep her guard up, to keep Tarrant safe despite his highly inconvenient position between her and the queen’s daughter.

A motion to the side draws her attention: Masonmark is lowering his arm. His hand is empty but Alice knows that pose. Knows it well.

 _“Tarrant!”_ she Screams in silence. It vibrates along her heart line, and the sensation is unlike anything she has ever felt. It jars and stabs her from within. She stumbles.

Tarra is relentless.

Masonmark collects his dropped sword.

The Fire Cracker sputters.

With the last instant of light, Alice grabs Tarrant’s cravat, pushes him behind her toward the end of the tunnel...

And then, with a flick of her wrist, Alice _rips_ the sword from Tarra’s hand.

The light dies. Suddenly. Completely.

Alice does not care about making noise. Her heart is pounding, the heart line itself is a frozen river of ice shards beneath her skin, burning her with its chill. She manages to keep her sword in her hand as she stumbles backward, using her hips and knees and shoulders to force Tarrant deeper into the gloom. She pauses long enough to grope for and pick up a bedroll. And when hasty footsteps follow, she gathers her strength and flings it awkwardly at the advancing foes. Her shoulder muscles scream but not loud enough to distract her from the pain of the heart line.

Dear Fates, she has _never_ felt anything like _this_ before!

The bedroll fulfills its purpose, however, and Alice listens as two bodies fumble and crash to the ground. She doesn’t linger. She fists her left hand as best she can in Tarrant’s waistcoat and _shoves_ him deeper into the tunnel.

Masonmark’s curses are hissed but the tunnel amplifies them. There’s the sound of scrambling, of fumbling with something wooden – a crate, perhaps – and then the whistle and _whoosh!_ of yet another Fire Cracker being dropped and allowed to ignite.

Alice slows her steps and watches as Masonmark peers into the tunnel, sword in hand. He moves as if to follow, but Tarra stops him. With her smaller hand clutching his sleeve, she says, “No. They can see us.”

Indeed they can: not only can Alice see her two adversaries very clearly, but she realizes that she and Tarrant are too deeply ensconced in the shadows now for either Tarra or Masonmark to see them.

From this distance, Alice can see Masonmark nod his head once. “Aye. Bu’ they won’ ge’ far...”

Despite the threat, he lowers his sword. Perhaps he will gather the others before continuing pursuit. Or perhaps he expects them to perish in the swamp beyond. Or perhaps he expects the injury Tarrant had received and the heart lines to...

Quietly, Alice walks backward, breathing through gritted teeth, guiding Tarrant ever closer to the exit, wherever it is.

  
_Let it be near!_

She prays as she has never prayed before. Something is _very_ wrong with Tarrant and she fears it is due to that empty hand of Masonmark’s. When the second Fire Cracker fades and its dim distant glow is completely extinguished, when she is sure that their foes are not continuing the chase (or, _not yet_ , at least), Alice pushes Tarrant against the wall and silently sheathes her sword. She runs her hands over his chest, which is difficult as he seems incapable of standing fully upright. But after a moment, she feels it: the fingers of her right hand brush against a very noticeable and double-edged metal protrusion. She examines the area. The knife is lodged in his shoulder. His _left_ shoulder and...

“ _No..._ ” she whispers, measuring the placement of the wound.

“ _Aye_ ,” he replies on a pained breath, slumping a bit further down against the wall.

She checks once more, just to be sure! She probes his shoulder with her fingers – hoping she is wrong! – but she knows his body better than she knows her own!

Her fingers trail up his shirtsleeve, over his waistcoat, following the heart line she Knows to be there... and then her fingers are stopped by the blade embedded in his flesh. The blade that is bisecting his heart line.

“What do I do?” she mouths in the darkness. Can she treat this like a _normal_ knife wound? Can she remove the blade without bringing further harm to the heart line? But how can she even begin to try to slow the bleeding if she just leaves the knife there?!

His blood runs warm and thick over her fingers and she begins to feel a little lightheaded.

“Help me,” she begs. “Tell me what to do.”

He does. “Pull th’ bluddy thing out an’ pack th’ wound.”

Tarrant’s voice, while soft, carries in its tone an Authority that she responds to automatically. She reaches up and rips her sleeves from their seams. She also uses one of her throwing knives to cut away the lower six inches of her tunic. With these scraps draped over her shoulder, she reaches for the dagger in her husband’s flesh.

“I love you,” she whispers. And then she    
_Pulls._

“ _Grraah!_ ” The moan of agony is so soft it doesn’t manage to travel past their panting breaths.

Alice tosses the offensive weapon aside and quickly folds up one shirtsleeve and presses it to the wound, wedging it beneath the stiff fabric of his waistcoat. With the other strips of fabric, she fashions a rough sling. He leans back against the curved, filthy wall, sighing with relief as the weight is taken off from the muscles, easing the pressure. Alice takes a moment to reach for the waistband of his trousers and pull out his shirt. She swiftly cuts two swaths from the hem of the shirt lengthwise. With these strips, she manages to bind the compress in place over the wound. It’s far from perfect and she’s sure she’ll be utterly horrified once they have a teaspoon of light to see by, but it’s the best she can do.

“How does that feel? Any less wretched?”

“Surprisingly... yes. A bit.”

“Surprisingly...” she parrots, blinking. And it’s in _this_ moment that she realizes his Authority had been completely and utterly _false._ “Damn it, Tarrant. You let me operate on the heart line _in the dark?!_ ”

He giggles... weakly. “I did do that, didn’t I?”

“Brangergain i’tall,” she mutters. If only he were well enough for her to go into all the ways in which what they’d just done had been unforgivably _stupid!_

However, she says something a bit more productive, instead: “Don’t you _dare_ go into shock on me. We still have to get out of here.”

“Yes, yes. If you’ll lend me your shoulder, Raven...”

Taking a deep breath to try to dispel the persistent dizziness she feels, Alice ducks under his good arm and wraps her throbbing left around his waist. The heart line still feels cold, damaged, incomplete... as if a stumble will be enough to crack it, shatter it, smash it to bits. Her heart line finger aches, her hand is numb, her arm _burns_ , and her heart feels nearly frostbitten. She turns Tarrant toward the exit and begins the necessary trek. They set a mindless, steady pace and Alice takes to pinching and tickling the fingers of his right hand to keep both him _and_ herself alert. He presses his lips to the side of her head regularly in thanks.

Every heartbeat seems to measure less time than it ought to: the journey to the end of the darkness can’t possibly take as much time as she imagines it does, for it feels as if _forever_ has passed since Tarrant had stupidly come between her and Tarra. She’d had _everything under_ _ **control, damn it!**_

“She tried to take off your head,” he murmurs, somehow reading her mind. Or perhaps simply the tension in her shoulders. Or perhaps they have been married so long that they are occasionally – like now – of the same mind. Or perhaps she had merely and mundanely been muttering under her breath. She blinks just to be sure her eyes are still open. The wooziness is playing tricks with her mind and the uninterrupted darkness does not help.

“I wouldn’t have let her.”

He sighs. “I couldnae help it, Alice. ’Twas nae under my control.”

She leans her temple against his cheek and acquiesces. They both have their own personal limits and nothing will come from arguing about it now. Now they exist one step at a time, moving closer to what they hope will be the end of their trials.

“Bandy will be waiting,” she assures him. He nods.

It’s a very long time before the pinpoint of weak, glowing light ahead brightens with the coming of dawn. They trek closer and the pinpoint becomes the size of a ship’s window... and then a tea table... and then they are there, standing on the rim of the tunnel and, with a relieved sigh, Alice leans Tarrant against the slimy, moss-covered wall.

Ignoring the stagnant stench of the swamp, she takes a moment to inspect his bandages and the sight of him is even more horrifying that she’d imagined. Both his shirtfront and the whole left side of his waistcoat are soaked dark with blood. She frowns at the color, for it doesn’t appear to be as... bluish as she’d expected. She cuts more fabric from the hem of his shirt – a persistent breeze will be more than enough to show off his pale belly now! – and replaces the soaked compress. She reties the bindings across his chest and over his shoulder then adjusts his sling. He dozes through the entire procedure, still bracing himself against the curved wall of the tunnel.

“Don’t fall asleep,” she orders him. “I’ll go get Bandy.”

Alice wades through the muck of the swamp, pushing her way through saw grass and trying not to trip over willow roots and into bogs. She struggles as far from the tunnel entrance as she dares but she does not see the Bandersnatch. It takes her fogged, starved and pain-wracked mind several minutes before she realizes that she cannot find the Bandersnatch because there _is_ no Bandersnatch. Not here, anyway. Not waiting for them.

No Bandersnatch, she realizes on a full-body shiver, means no rescue. It means they are Alone.

And Tarrant is still bleeding. The heart line is still burning. Inconceivably, their tribulations have only _just begun._ Mind numb, Alice turns and retraces her muddy, water-filled steps back to the tunnel.

“Wha’tis i’?” Tarrant asks, his words slurring together. His eyes are unfocused but he can no doubt see her pallor and tension clearly enough in the morning light.

She fists her left hand and tries to ignore the agony searing her through the heart line. It’s getting proportionally more difficult to do with her increasing exhaustion. “No Bandy,” she replies, too tired to be tactful.

Tarrant closes his eyes, sighs out a breath in defeat.

Seeing that, Alice summons a surge of... _something._ She stumbles, wobbles, weaves toward him and shakes him urgently, if a bit weakly. “No! _No!_ And don’t you even _think_ about sitting down now! I’ll never get you back up on my own. And I _need_ your help.”

“You know...” he lisps on a wispy breath, “that I would give you anything you desire, my Alice.”

“Good. Because I need you to be strong for me now,” she informs him in a tone she wishes was as steely as it ought to be. “We can’t stay here. Masonmark and the others will come looking for us eventually. We have to keep moving.”

“Oh, Alice...” he moans. “Ask me another...”

“We _have to!_ ” she commands.

This time, when he sighs, it is not a pleasant sound but it is, thankfully, _not_ an admission of surrender. “Forgive me, Alice. Of course we must. Of course... Where shall we go?”

Alice is grateful he is too worn out to consider that very carefully. If he were capable of his usual brilliance, he would have already worked that out for himself. And he would _not_ have been happy about the answer. No, not in the slightest.

“Trust me?” she nearly begs. She’s sure she’ll have quite a bit of explaining to do once they arrive, once he has received medical attention, once he is recovering. And when that time comes, she will gladly endure his fury. So long as he makes it to that moment, the rest is inconsequential.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tamial Hightopp – the master of espionage, warrior of truth and justice – had needed a place to hide. Luckily, the room Win had chosen had offered several. Tam had forgone the obvious under-the-tablecloth location and crouched behind a screen, wedging himself between a cabinet and a sizable stack magazines to wait. He listens to the sound of his cousin’s footsteps as Win paces back and forth in the cluttered room. Taking in what there is to see, Tam peers at the cover of the topmost magazine and... gapes.

The image on the cover is... _Oh! Ah, um... well!_ He ought to be embarrassed even seeing a woman who looks to be his Mam’s age with her bare breasts spilling out over her corset but... he thinks his eyelids might be permanently stuck open, actually.

He leans toward the edge of the screen, tearing his attention away from the mostly not-dressed woman on the cover of the magazine in order to call Win over – his cousin had _got_ to see _this!_ – when, suddenly, a grumpy-looking, gray-haired man wearing spectacles stomps in.

“What do you think you’re doing in here!” the man blusters and Tam flinches quickly behind the screen, his guilty conscience biting him on the scut just like his Mam has always warned him it would should he let his Curiosity get the better of him.

“This shop doesn’t cater to _children!_ Get out!!”

What happens next, Tam is sure, guarantees his cousin a place in Heroic Infamy until the End of Time:

In a firm, commanding tone, Win announces, “I’m here about the newspapers in the front window, sir! And I don’t expect you to _cater_ to me unless you’re the one who sent me _this!_ ”

Tam hears a slight rustle and he imagines Win pulling out the envelop he’d received over a week ago and holding it up as if waving one of those lace fans of Aunt Margaret’s. Tam has no idea if his cousin actually does that, but it _is_ a completely Epic visual so he lets himself enjoy it.

“And if you _are_ the gentleman who sent me this, I would very much like an explanation!”

Tam has to press his hands to his grinning mouth to keep from cheering him on. Grinning, he mouths to himself, “I think I’ve figured out what trade I want to take on.” Yes, if being as Awesome as his cousin can be considered a trade, then Tam is going to learn it!

“Ah... Well. I see,” the shop’s owner replies grudgingly. “Have a seat there. I’ll contact the man you’ll need to speak to.” Tam listens to footsteps retreating from the room into the hall. “Wait at that table and _don_ ’ _t_ _touch_ _ **anything**_ _!_ ” is the final command.

The door slams shut. Again, Tam scuttles forward and peers around the edge of the screen. “Hey! Win!” he whispers to his cousin’s back.

“What?” Win demands, turning in his seat, looking pale and nervous and not at all heroic, but that doesn’t erase Tam’s memories of a few moments ago. Nor does it shake his admiration.

“You were _great!_ ”

“Thanks!” Win grins.

Tam smiles back. Then, remembering what he’s sharing the space back here with, he glances over his shoulder and pulls the first magazine off the stack. “Look at _this!_ ”

“Holy...! _Tam!_ ”

“I _know!_ There’s a whole _pile_ of them back here!”

Win glances over his shoulder at the door, then turns back around and whispers, “Put one in your vest!”

“ _What?!_ ”

“C’mon!” Win whines. “Just one. No one will notice!”

“ _I will!_ ”

“Please?”

“Well... all... all right.”

Win squirms in his seat, doing a rather frenzied half-Futterwhacken sort of dance. Tam giggles, rolls his eyes and turns back to the stack. He flips through several, finding one that makes his jaw drop and he actually wonders if a person’s eyes _can_ pop out of their head.

“He~llo...” he murmurs to all the bare womany flesh on the cover of the magazine. Hastily, he tucks it under his vest and the wedges it into the waistband of his trousers. The magazine is guilty stare on his back, but he doesn’t have time to suffer much nibbling from Guilt this time. The door opens once more and the man who speaks _this time_ is definitely _not_ the shopkeeper!

“Mr. Winslow Manchester. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

Tam listens as Win stands up, pushing his chair back noisily. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”

“Hm. You know, it is _startling_ how much you resemble your late father.”

“I... um, thank you, sir.”

There’s a contemplative moment during which Tam is sure his heart is going to explode from the oppressive silence.

“Please. Have a seat, Mr. Manchester. You know, I wasn’t sure if you would agree to meet me. You are an uncommonly brave young man.”

“Th– thank you, sir. Um, what may I call you?”

The man seems to consider that for a moment. Tam _itches_ to get a good look at him but fists his hands and forces himself to stay hidden.

“You may call me... a friend.”

Win pauses before replying. “I’m afraid I require your name, sir.”

Tam blinks, his admiration for his very muchy cousin growing by the minute.

“You require nothing, Winslow. You don’t mind if I call you by your Christian name, do you? Ah, very good. Now, Winslow, everything you _require_ , you are already holding in your hands.”

“This?” Winslow replies, obviously not believing _that._ Tam smothers a snort of agreement. He listens to the crinkle of aged newsprint as Win takes them out and glances at them again

“Yes. Those. They’re fairly self-explanatory.”

“So... my dad... Lord Ascot... he really fought a duel with my father?”

“Yes. He really did. A dreadful affair.” The man shifts and his chair creaks. “Did he tell you what his infraction was?”

“Uh, well...”

“No, I didn’t think so. Hm. Well, let’s consider the facts, shall we? Your mother, Margaret Kingsleigh, was married to Lowell Manchester. And then, after his unfortunate death... she married Lord Ascot, didn’t she? Now, you’re a bright lad. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“Well, I suppose so...” Tam listens to his cousin thinking. “So, you’re saying they fought over my mother?”

“May duels are fought over the love of a woman.”

“So... did she know? My mother?”

The man chuckles. “What do _you_ think, Winslow?”

Silence answers that question. Tam struggles to think of a reply himself but nothing comes to him.

“Did you notice the dates?” the man drawls.

“Yes. So... my father really died on the ship to America?”

“Perhaps he did. Lord Ascot’s family is _very_ wealthy, you know. And the ship was one of his. The men aboard were loyal to him. If he wanted the younger Lord Manchester – _your father –_ to... disappear...”

Tam hears his cousin swallow thickly in the expectant silence. “Oh.”

“Indeed. Many things are possible for Lord Ascot. Do keep that in mind.”

“But... I can’t...! No!” Win decides hotly. “I don’t believe this! He wouldn’t. He _wouldn_ ’ _t!_ ”

The legs of the man’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. “Be careful, Winslow. Associating with people who command a great deal of money and power can be... perilous.”

“But... _wait!_ What if I have more questions! I mean... what happened at the duel? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I suppose you don’t,” the man answers in a thoughtful tone. “But what possible motivation would I have for bringing this to your attention?”

“Er...”

“Precisely. And as for the details of that duel, I suppose you could ask Lord Ascot... if you think he’ll actually tell you the unvarnished truth.”

Win has no reply to that. Neither does Tam, actually.

The door opens but the man pauses before departing. “Take care, Mr. Manchester. And if you should wish to speak to me again, please ask the shop proprietor to fetch me. I’ve left instructions for him to do so.”

“All... all right.”

“Very good. Good bye and, until our next meeting, _please_ , take care.”

The door shuts and the room is so silent, so still that Tam wonders if Win has disappeared. He dares to lean out around the screen and sees his cousin staring at the pair of newspapers spread out on the tabletop. He moves to stand and the magazine jabs him between the shoulder blades. Frowning, he pulls it out and considers the uncovered woman on the cover. For some reason, the image upsets him now, although he can’t really say why.

He replaces it in the stack and approaches his cousin. “Come on, Win,” he says, pulling on his cousin’s sleeve. “We should go before the shopkeeper comes back.”

Gazing blankly ahead, Win simply nods.

Tam gathers up the newspapers and tucks them back inside the envelope. With a hand on the other boy’s arm, he leads him down the hall and toward the door. Just before he opens it, he hesitates. Is the man outside, waiting? Will he see them both and realize that Win had not come alone after all?

Tam bites his lip and dithers. It’s not until he can hear the sounds of the shopkeeper moving precariously close to the door separating the shop proper from these back rooms that he dares to open the door and haul his unresisting cousin outside. And he continues hauling him right back to Green Park.

“Sit down,” Tam orders him, pointing to the base of a tree. Win does. Tam slumps to the ground next to him and for long moments, they contemplate the late afternoon light on the green grass, the passers by, the completely normal (if grayish and somewhat smoggy) day around them.

“Do you think my dad... Do you think he really... did those things?” Win finally whispers.

Tam huffs out a breath and replies brashly. “I can’t even imagine it.” And _that_ ’s really saying something.

“You couldn’t imagine him _in a duel_ , either,” Win reminds him.

Tam scowls and searches for something reassuring to say.

But, for the life of him, he can’t think of a single thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Fire Crackers. Heh. I couldn’t resist. Especially in conjunction with the Three Second Rule. Of course, if you did drop a Fire Cracker and pick back up in under three seconds... well, I wouldn’t be surprised if it caused you quite a bit of Heart Burn. (^__~)
> 
> 2\. Yes, visual pornography was very available in Victorian Era England. And I think it’s obvious why I won’t be providing links this time to my resources. (^__~)


	8. Last Resort

 

One foot is placed in front of the other. One step is suffered at a time.

Alice can no longer feel their plodding progress itself, even as they make it. The cold, sucking mud has long since drawn all feeling out of her legs from the knees down. Her hips and thighs and back compensate for the lack of sensation by screaming in agony as she pulls one foot out of the muck, thrusts it forward, sinks it back into the marshy earth, and then lifts the other.

She can only imagine how Tarrant is bearing this.

Reaching up, she yanks on his hand again where it dangles in front of her chest. She’s too lightheaded – perhaps from lack of sleep although that has never affected her this strongly before – and too shaky – from pushing her body past its limits, no doubt – and too exhausted to be gentle with him. At this point, she’s just trying to remind him that they’re both still Alive. Loving and teasing touches will come after they’ve made it through the Slough.

She fairly claws at his clammy, mud-splattered, grimy hand. Tarrant fumbles until his fingers grasp hers and although he does not speak – he can barely keep his eyes open for any length of time! – he does respond with a painfully strong grip.

If she weren’t incapable of stringing two words together, she would have thanked him for the discomfort. Anything other than the monotony of their trek is welcome at this point.   
_Anything._

“Tam... safe,” he rasps suddenly.

Alice blinks, breathes, and winces as she pulls her left foot out of the muck. A few steps later, when the meaning registers in her brain, she nods. “Yes.”

“... good,” he points out flatly.

“Very.” Yes, it is _very_ good that they had decided to send Tam to Upland. He’ll be safe there. Margaret will look after him. Hamish will lecture him. Winslow will corrupt him. Yes, Tam is fine.

“Son...” Tarrant grunts and Alice thinks she might have actually heard a sprinkling of emotion in his tone. “So glad. Thank you, Alice.”

She takes one more step... one step which Tarrant does _not_ take with her... and stops. “No,” she tells him, finally understanding what he’s trying to say. “No quitting.”

She tugs weakly at his arm. He shuffles a bit in the mud and stops again.

“So sorry.”

“Shut up and _walk_ , Tarrant!” she hisses, hot fury flaming through her muscles, reanimating her. She knows it won’t last and when it burns out she’ll be even worse off that she had been before. That doesn’t stop her from taking advantage of it. “Are you going to let me _die_ _ **here**_ _?_ ”

He raises his eyes – a frighteningly dull gray – to her face and stares at her.

“You quit; I quit,” she threatens.

Slowly, he shakes his head. His long auburn hair is matted and tangled and looks utterly foul from where he had permitted the slimy moss hanging from the skeletal branches of the half dead willow trees to drag over his head and shoulders. He had been too tired to try to duck or dodge them.

Alice continues her onslaught and there is no room for sympathy in her attack: “Will you make our son an orphan? What was the last thing you said to him? Did you tell him how much you love him? Did you tell him he’d never see you again?”

“Alice...” he wheezes, pained. His face twists with such agony she doesn’t doubt she’ll feel guilty for torturing him like this... later... when she has the energy to spare for it.

“Either keep walking or let me fall into the mud, Tarrant.”

“Thwimble fumpt,” he curses and begins slogging forward again. Alice grimly joins him, taking note of his colorless state. She can even see the pinkish shadows of lingering stains on his once-again-too-white face. She has a fleeting thought for checking his wound, wonders how much blood he has lost, but there is nothing she can do to improve his state by expending energy on either.

“Ten,” she announces, completing a step. And then another: “Nine...”

“Eight,” he gasps.

“Seven...”

They count down to one and then Alice starts over again. Over and over and over they count down from ten and little by little the ground firms, the trees thicken, until – suddenly! – she stumbles against Tarrant, scrabbling at his waist in a futile attempt to keep herself upright as her feet hit what feels suspiciously like a hard-packed dirt path. The solid surface beneath the mud-saturated soles of her boots jars her knees and she squeals with the vibrations as they run up her aching spine. Tarrant’s right hand fists in the remains of her tunic and keeps her from falling flat on her face.

“Sorry. Sorry,” she mutters, climbing shakily back to her feet. She tucks herself under his arm again, noting that he’d locked his knees to stay standing. They have to get moving again or he’ll pass out right where he stands.

Alice uses whatever is close at hand to pull them further along the path.

“Familiar,” Tarrant whines as the path begins to slope upward through the scraggly forest of foliage-less trees.

“I know.”

“Alice...”

“I know.”

“Won’t help...”

“He _will._ ” Or else.

“Impossible.”

“Only if you believe it is.”

Alice sets her jaw, ignores the oscillating torment of shattering cold and frightening numbness along her heart line, and nearly _drags_ Tarrant along the path. They pass intersection after intersection but Alice continues stubbornly south. She conserves her voice, struggles to plan her strategy but her thoughts are slippery and every tactic she considers turns into a threat or a plea. She can only hope she performs better than she thinks when they arrive.

And arrive they do. Tarrant is shuddering, shivering, swaying on his feet as Alive pounds on the door. The effort is only possible with the aid of her entire body. Tarrant has no strength left to offer. He is spent and standing only because Alice had leaned down and locked his knees into position herself before she’d thrown herself at the castle gate.

She pounds on the door, screams to the midday sky... or, at least, she thinks she does. In all honesty, she cannot be sure.

“Prince Jaspien!” she pleads, all thoughts of threats long since evaporated. The heart line alternately burns her with cold, sears her with heat, and numbs to nothing, which is the most frightening sensation of all.

She slumps against the door, cries out when her knees hit the hard-packed dirt, and sighs when the door swings open. She looks up and into the unfeeling face of the man who had once lusted after the White Realm, had participated in Alice’s capture and had held Mirana against her will... She looks up into the face she hates more than any other in all of Underland.

“Please...” she begs, swaying, struggling not to fall prostrate on the ground. Although it won’t hurt her case, she doubts she’ll be able to get back up again.

Jaspien regards her for a moment that seems to warp into an eternity. She pants on the threshold of the only available haven for _miles_ , too tired to plead, too exhausted to argue, too dizzy to even keep her eyes open for more than an instant at a time.

Finally, the gray, indifferent man replies, “If you can get him to a bed, I will fetch what medicines I have.”

She very nearly passes out with relief right then.

“However...” he muses softly.

Alice holds her breath, wills herself to concentrate.

“You will owe me a boon.”

“Name it,” she whispers despite her dry tongue and cracked lips.

He does.

“Agreed.” She would have agreed to anything to save Tarrant, so the concession is not difficult to make. No, not difficult at all.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Irondirk, the only one of them who both serves the White Queen _and_ can identify every one of the rebels, sits on his bedroll with his bound hands in his lap. If only circumstances permitted him to make his report to the queen, he could have quite possibly been rather heroic, but here... now... the man is more or less useless.

Leif scowls at everyone, his golden eyes roving over the occupants of this room-ish section of the tunnel, stubbornly memorizing their faces and maybe even their individual infractions in the event that one of them is stupid enough to let him near a weapon. At the moment... that is unlikely.

Yes, things are looking pretty damn _Bad_ at the moment, Mally assesses with brutal honesty. At least she has not been discovered. Yet. She dares to poke her head a bit further out of the cloak hood as movement at the edge of the campfire draws her attention.

Little is being said just now, so she lets her attention wander. Unfortunately, it does not wander anywhere Pleasant; she glowers across the softly illuminated space, their prison, resenting it.

This place will _ruin_ her spotless service record. She is _sure_ of it.

And, to think, just yesterday – or had it been the day before yesterday? – she had been enjoying rather optimistic thoughts:

One minute, Mallymkun had been riding in a clever fold in the hood of Tarra’s cloak, seriously considering indulging in the fine weather she can sense on the other side of the woven wool, wondering if she dares poke her nose out for a snuffle of richly-scented, sun-warmed, gluttonously over-ripe Orash orchard air...

One minute, she had been convinced that the rumors of a potentially dangerous movement against the White Queen must have been a product of Setteeson’s glue-addled imagination (that workroom _had_ looked rather poorly ventilated)...

One minute, everything had been fine, well, under control...

And the next minute...

Well.

Well!

  
_Well!_

Mally had very nearly shouted that exact declaration, her thoughts skittering with panic, her mind spinning in the darkness of the wool. Weightless, helpless, she’d scrabbled to clutch the fabric in her paws to anchor herself.

It hadn’t helped.

Falling...

Falling...

  
_Falling..._

And then a _very_ sudden Stop!

Luckily, Tarra had landed on her scut and not on her back, otherwise the day might have turned out even Worse for the dormouse riding in the hood draped down her back between her shoulder blades. (Not that Mally is having a callaycious time of things at the moment. No, there is not callou-ing or callay-ing to be done _here!_ _Now!_ )

Mally had taken a deep breath in relief... and had nearly choked on the noxious fumes of something rancid, rotting, rank.

Perhaps they _had_ fallen down a well... but, from the smell of it Mally is Sure it is not of the Treacle variety!

No, this is most definitely _not_ a Treacle Well. She had not been spared the scent of the tunnel; it had seeped through the tight weave of the cloak more swiftly than a rainstorm deluge. _Ar_ , Mally winces, wishing she could close her nose, _a Red Rule moaty-muck water deluge!_ It had made – and still makes! – her nose twitch and her eyes water despite the handkerchief she had applied to her face.

She turns her attention back to the present circumstances and huffs. Despite the sand and sawdust that had been packed down onto the floor in this particular section, the ground, the air, _everything_ still smells—

“Frumious!” she mutters to herself in abject disgust, clinging to the square of linen pressed over her nose, and suspects she’ll have rather vivid sensory nightmares about this place.

Mally reluctantly climbs out of the hood, despairing that her boots will ever smell pleasantly of leather and polish again... then scolds herself for such vain thoughts in the face of their... Situation. She is a Dormouse with a Job To Do! She returns to her survey of the inhabited portion of the tunnel, counts the bedrolls, and notes the stack of pots and barrels of water.

Stomach rolling at the sight, Mally cringes at the thought of putting anything in her mouth _here_ , wherever this foul, frumious Here is! _How_ _ **do**_ _up-right folk tolerate such filth and stench?_ The state of their sense of smell must be woeful, indeed!

There are coils of rope and a wheelbarrow. And beyond the light of the campfire around which more than ten youngish people have gathered, Mally can see something glimmering in the darkness. Several somethings. Long and straight and metal with a sharp edge...

Wary of the youths circled around the campfire – and especially wary of Tarra’s obvious comfort amongst them – Mally skirts past and investigates those sharp metal somethings. Unfortunately, they turn out to be broad swords and spears and there are quite a _lot_ of them.

“Oh, _dear..._ ”

As that seems to sum up the situation nicely enough, Mally turns her back on the weapons she can do absolutely nothing about at the present time and turns her attention toward her _other_ concern, her _original_ concern: Princess Tarranya.

Mally’s ire rises at the sight of her _now_ : Princess Tarranya, the Champion of the New Resistance.

It boggles Mally’s mind how things have come to this. It is... She is...

Unbelievable.

Unbelievable but True. How can Mally ignore the evidence? Tarra had not only offered to fight with them, but she had _told_ them how to issue an Intention to Do Battle to the White Queen. She had _educated_ them on how to use the Rules of Wartime Engagement to their benefit. She had heard it with her own ears! (And a dormouse’s ears are sensitive, indeed!)

The only thing Mally can’t quite understand is _why_ Tarra had neglected to warn them that the queen would be sending a search party. No, she had not told them that. Perhaps because Tarra had never realized she’d been being watched this last week... ? Perhaps Mally and Bayto and Leif had done their jobs Very Well, after all!

She wishes she could feel more proud of that at the moment, but how can she? Tarra had not seen them, had not realized she had not been alone and without Friends; she’d gotten herself embroiled in a rebellion instead.

Oh, the king and queen are not going to like this! Not one bit!

Well, once they hear the truth, that is. And how Mally intends to send them a message is still a detail she hasn’t managed to work out yet. She is torn between remaining here, with Tarra and Leif, and trying to scurry back to Mamoreal. But even taking her fastest scurrying speed into account, Mally doubts she would arrive with this information in time to be of much use.

She doesn’t like it, but even doing Nothing _here_ is more useful than wasted energy.

Alice and the Hatter may not know the Details, but they know enough. Yes, they will escape to Mamoreal and tell the queen and...

“We aul ’ave our reasons f’r wantin’ this war,” Abler says suddenly, parting the thickened silence. He speaks quietly – too quietly for his voice to echo – but everyone seated at the campfire listens. “Bu’ mos’ly, we’re keen teh fight f’r the sake o’ our Fa-s an’ Mam-s.” He takes a deep breath, stares into the fire. “I mae case, ’tis m’uncle.” He nods in Irondirk’s direction. Mally turns to catch the man’s reaction: a flash of temper in his eyes, a clenching jaw, the grinding of his new teeth. But he does not interrupt.

Masonmark continues, not even looking over his shoulder at the object of his speech, “He was a fighter once. Strong an’ proud. Nauw he makes carvin’ knives, candlesticks, an’ dress mannequins.”

“A shame worth weepin’ o’er,” a young man murmurs. Several others nod.

“’Tis b’cause o’ the White Queen he can ne’er pick up a sword again.”

“How so?” Tarra whispers back.

Abler glances at her. “Aye, I doub’ they wouldae tol’ ye th’ truth o’ it. Ye see...” he begins with a deep breath. “’Twas some time ago... mayhap o’er fifteen years when Outlanders were proud warriors. Times were hard, though, an’ many ’ad teh fight f’r a wage. Like m’uncle. Like numerish uncles an’ fa’hers an’ bro’hers...”

There are a fair number of nods at this.

“They took work where they coul’ find it, an’ they found it wi’ a nobleman who sided agains’ th’ White Queen. A visionary, tha’ man. Mustae seen her f’r who she really is.”

A round of Aye-s follows that speculation.

“Bu’ on th’ day o’ battle, the White Queen an’ her Champion used th’ most slithy, shrifty means teh win. Faced wi’ death ’r throwin’ down their weapons an’ swearing _fealty_... well. ’Twas nae choice, really.”

The silence that follows in the wake of this is one filled with grief. Mally has heard silence like this before. It is the silence observed in honor of the dead. But what do they mourn? Because of Alice’s Uplandish plan, _no one_ had died that day! In fact, _Peace_ had been made! Surely they cannot be mourning the very peace that has made their lives possible?!

And what’s this about a _nobleman?_ Mally scrunches her face into a scowl that – for once – has nothing to do with the smell. Do they really believe that Valereth, Oshtyer, and Jaspien had had the _right_ of things back then?!

Mally wishes very _vigorously_ to introduce herself and her very sharp hat pin sword to the man or beast who has been _manufacturing_ history! Why, there’d been no mention of those three greizin’-grommers’ bid for power! No one had mentioned the crimes they’d committed: kidnapping the queen and Alice and Worrying the Hatter! Why, for that last offense alone, Mally had been inspired to start a skewered eyeball collection!

It is _impossible_ for these _children_ to believe the White Queen is their enemy. It is _ridiculous_ for them to insist that either the queen _or_ Alice have done anything other than give their families a Future! They are, each and every one of them, _dreadfully_ mistaken! Mally _knows._ She was _there_ , after all! She is a witness to that very moment!

She realizes she’s marching toward them moments after she begins stalking. Regaining her senses, she ducks behind a bedroll and bites her lower lip to keep herself from railing at them. Mally takes a deep breath, notes that this bedroll could do with a good week and a half of airing out, and then peeks around the edge at the group seated around the fire.

“Nauw ye, yer majesty,” Abler says. “Whot’s yer grievance wi’ th’ queen?”

“It’s personal,” Tarra replies stiffly.

“As is each o’ ours,” he reminds her in a stern tone.

“The king and queen...” Tarra takes a fortifying breath. “... are wed by Soul Bond.”

 _This_ seems to upset and startle several amongst the present company.

She continues, “I knew what that was supposed to do, how it was supposed to control the minds and hearts of their children... Maybe I always knew that they were... that I was enslaved. That I wasn’t my own person. Maybe that’s why I wanted so badly to come to Crimson Harbor. Maybe I sensed that I could be... free here, away from them and the power of the Bond. And now I know it’s true. It’s _all true!_ ” She sends a brief, furious glare in Leif’s direction. “They had me followed, knew when I disappeared... and tried to force me to go back. Well, I _won_ ’ _t._ Their control over me is Finished.”

Again, they observe a Moment of Silence. Abler is the one who gathers their collective attention once again. “We cannae stand f’r the White Queen’s rule any launger. Ye’ll ’ave yer vengeance, Tarra,” he promises.

Tarra laughs. Bitterly. “Oh, yes. Vengeance. By way of battle. What a grand idea! Nineteen of us against the White Army? How can we _not_ be victorious?”

“There’s a fair few more o’ us than who ye see ’ere.”

“Is that so?”

“An’ besides, whot were ye sayin’ abou’ issuin’ a Champion’s Challenge? Ye d’nae need a great army f’r that.”

“No, I won’t but before I step out there and expose my... _true_ allegiances, I want to know exactly who’ll be standing with me.”

 _This_ is met with quite a bit of angry muttering. Abler replies, “I willnae tell ye our true numbers.”

“Then find yourself another Champion.”

Abler growls, “There be nae need f’r tha’. Ye’ll figh’.”

“Oh, will I? What makes you so sure?”

“Ye’re ’ere, lass. In _our_ territory,” he reminds her darkly.

“And you’ll do what? Keep me here if I decide I don’t want to be your Champion after all? You’ll be no better than the queen herself to get what you want?”

Abler actually rears back as if she had struck him in the face. “... Nae. _Nae._ We will nae do tha’.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It’s nice to know I’m not trading one bucket of worthless rath spit for another—” By the pitch of Tarra’s inflection, it’s clear that she has more to say, but sounds of approaching footsteps splishing, splashing, and splatting through the muck and mire of the tunnel echo loud enough to interrupt.

Mally, having heard them coming _minutes_ ago, stays close to the nearest frumious bedroll as a half dozen sword-bearing young men and women stride up to and stop beside Masonmark and Tarra. Masonmark looks up expectantly. The leader of the expedition that had just spent several long hours investigating the tunnel between here and Gummer Slough shakes her head. “They’re gone.”

Masonmark sighs.

“Cheer up,” Tarra comments. “If she’s alive that means you can still have your battle.”

“An’ I suppose ye still think ye’ll b’ fightin’ in it!” the young woman snaps. “’Tis _our_ figh’ and we don’ need some lily white bluddy _Champion_ teh b’ fightin’ our battles fer us!” the young Outlandish woman retorts.

“All right. Go on and get your friends killed. I’ll happily let you get on with it. There’s a warm bowl of stew that _doesn_ ’ _t_ taste like borogove droppings calling my name topside.” Tarra turns away and toward her abandoned cloak. Mally twitches, eyeing the distance between herself and her mode of transport, despairing of being trapped _here_.

Masonmark reaches for her arm. “Wait...”

“You’re manhandling me again.”

“I... ahem. Sorry.” He takes a deep breath and turns a very stern expression on his kinswoman. “Corea, Tarra ’as as much righ’ teh this figh’tas we do. Ye’d do well teh consider supportin’ our Champion.”

“An’ she’s just gae’ng teh put ou’ ’er neck... outteh th’ gehdness o’ ’er heart?”

“With such a warm welcome, how could I not?” Tarra drawls sarcastically.

Abler steps between them and holds out his hands. “Halt, th’ twine o’ ye. Corea, Tarra ’as proved ’er intentions well. An’ I’m nae keen teh lose m’kinsmen an’ kinswomen in battle if’n can be avoided.”

“Ye’re makin’ a mistake, trustin’ a _royal_ ,” Corea spits. The two womens’ gazes lock and, for a moment, the silence vibrates like a plucked string. And then _everyone_ stands and the tunnel echoes with the clashing clamoring of their shouts and objections.

“Well...” a soft, aristocratic voice drawls next to Mally’s ear, starling her. She gasps and gets a whiff of a very familiar cat in the process.

She turns toward the newcomer. “Chess!” she hisses, thankful the argument on the other side of the room is continuing to heat up despite Abler’s efforts to calm everyone. “What’re _you_ doing here?”

His eyes blink open over a wide, sharp-toothed grin that forms from the teal mist swirling in the gloomy shadows. “The usual, of course: indulging my curiosity.”

Mally smirks. “Some things never change. Or...” she muses with a regal arch of her brow, “maybe some things _do_. Domestic jabberwocky bliss not all it’s cracked up to be, Chess?”

His grin doesn’t waver. “Only news of this magnitude could _pull_ me away.”

“I’m sure,” she replies wryly. “And just what are they sayin’ about all this?”

“Oh, nothing terribly exciting... hot-headed, young idealistic revolutionaries have taken a very valuable princess hostage and neither hide nor hair of either the King’s or Queen’s Champions has been seen since the rescue was launched. That sort of thing. Everyone in Mamoreal is quite distressed over the whole affair, interestingly enough.”

“I’ll just bet you’re loving _that!_ ” Chessur could find mischief in Sir Fenruffle’s sock drawer; an atmosphere filled to bursting with tension must be singing a siren’s call to him! “So, what are you doin’ _here?_ ” she insists. “Unless you fancy yourself the calvary?”

“I fancy myself quite a bit,” he admits. And then his grin widens. “But you _know_ I don’t get involved in politics.”

“You did once or twice that I recall.”

“Dreadful experiences, the both of them. I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

“Bloody _Cat_ ,” she hisses, crossing her arms.

“Well, if _that_ ’ _s_ all you have to say, perhaps I _won_ ’ _t_ offer my services as a courier to the White Queen after all...”

Mally spits out a swear word under her breath. “Dammit, Chess! You...!”

“And just where _is_ our dear Alice? Isn’t she supposed to be here, trying to convince Tarrant not to chew through his bindings and bludgeon everyone in sight with a sopping tea ball?”

“I ain’t gonna let you talk down on the ’Atter! He was the best fighter we had until...”

“Yes, until Alice. Speaking of whom...?”

“She ain’t here. Not her _or_ the ’Atter. Tarra an’ tha’ bloke who’s always got ’is arm around ’er waist fought ’em and—”

“Alice’s own apprentice – the queen’s daughter – _resisted_ rescue? Now that _is_ interesting!”

“Hush up, you! This is _important!_ Now Alice an’ the ’Atter are _missing!_ ”

“And from your tone, which I’m sure you meant to sound Significant, shall I infer that you have a _general_ idea of where they might be?”

“In Gummer Slough.”

“I... see... Well. I hope you’re not actually considering asking me to—”

“Go look for them,” she orders.

Chess heaves a martyred sigh. “Yes, I thought you might feel inclined request something highly unfortunate and deeply unpleasant... like _that_.”

Mally pokes a finger into the space between his free-floating eyes. “Whatever happened to _our_ Chess? The one who braved th’ axe-man at Crims and stood up to th’ Jabberwock at the Trial of Threes? Never hesitated to offer his-self up for a hair-pulling, foot-stomping, hand-biting free-for-all?”

“Whatever makes you think I _don_ ’ _t_ volunteer for that specific torment day in and day out? There are _four_ juveniles, after all. They _still_ have not left the nest and they _still_ get rather... unavoidably excited over Thrambleberries. Luckily, they are Thackery’s problem at the moment.”

Mally ignores that last remark – as well as an exasperated thought for Thack; oh, if only he would _share_ those Thrambleberries, he wouldn’t have to worry about them being _stolen_ every time he turns his tail to them! – and presses her point, “See? You ought to be well versed in danger, then. Heroics...”

“Self-preservation.”

“ _Please_ , Chess. Alice needs your help.”

“Well. Why didn’t you just _say so?_ ” he muses and then, on a smile, disappears completely.

Before Mally can take a swing – even if it’s merely a token one! – at the space Chessur’s face had just been not-filling up – things in the center of the room get un-ignore-ably loud rather suddenly.

“ _I_ ’ _m not going to waste my_ _ **time and energy in a MOCK BATTLE!**_ ”

“ _An_ ’ _jus_ ’ _who said anythin_ ’ ’ _bout i_ ’ _bein_ ’ _a_ _ **mockery o**_ ’ _ **battle?**_ ”

“Corea! Stan’ dauwn! Tarra, gi’ us a mite moment.”

“ _Fine_.”

Mally watches as Tarra steps over a collection of dirty pots from an earlier meal and wanders away from the caucus taking place near the campfire. She doesn’t glance over her shoulder but as snitches and snatches of Masonmark’s rebuke echo outward, her smirk deepens.

Mally takes this opportunity to dash back to the cloak and the relative safety of the hood. It appears to Mally that the same principles apply when it comes to keeping an eye on princesses as they do when selecting a teacup: location, location, location!

She takes cover just as Tarra passes by the hostages.

“On anyone else, I’d call that a satisfied smile,” Leif dares to inform her on a rumble that only Tarra, the nearby Irondirk, and the dormouse of superior hearing can make out.

She turns and glares at him. Mally has never seen her look so... so... Wait, where _has_ she seen that look before?

“If you’re waiting for me to ask for your opinion, you might as well hold your breath until I do.”

Leif growls softly. “That would have sounded wittier if you weren’t so focused on playing the fool.”

“A fool am I? That’s a new one.”

“You are opposing the queen.” He looks at her for a moment. “Are you going to tell me that’s not the stupidest thing anyone’s ever thought of?”

She plants her hands on her hips and looks down her nose at him. Suddenly, Mally knows where she’s seen that look!

“I don’t know... if I had to choose, I’d say giving lions a natural chain to yank had been pretty stupid.” She glances pointedly at his tail. “Wonder who decided on that?”

“You can’t win, Tarra,” he tells her, an edge in his voice that Mally thinks is panic.

“You underestimate me.”

“I don’t think I do,” he replies, glaring up at her. “I know what your mentor is capable of.”

“Maybe you do, but it doesn’t follow that you can judge _me_ so easily.”

“What makes you think I can’t? I’ve seen this game before. You’re going to lose, Tarra. This won’t end well.”

Tarra opens her mouth to reply, retort, rebut. Mally stares at her, marvels at the haughty arrogance of her expression, the patronizing arc of her brows... that’s the look of a queen. The Red Queen, to be exact. Dear tiny teacups, how had Princess Tarranya managed to learn _that_ look from her dead aunt?

For the first time since this wretch business began, Mally is more than Concerned for Tarra... She is, undeniably, _afraid._

“Nauw, nauw, lion man,” Masonmark replies before Tarra can cut him down. He approaches the hostages and grins broadly. “Ye cannae b’lieve tha’ Tarra’s mentor – e’en if she’s bein’ th’ Queen’s Champion – woul’ kill ’er aun apprentice.”

“There are fates worse than death,” Leif responds, not taking his golden eyes off of the princess.

She snorts derisively. “I’m willing to risk them. You’ll see, Leif,” she coos, leaning down to breathe her reply in his face. “Everything will be just fine. The way it’s _supposed_ to be. Have a little faith in me and I’ll make you my personal assistant when this is all over and done with.”

Masonmark laughs.

“B’ this a merrymakin’ matter, Abler?” Irondirk inquires in a brittle tone.

The young man shakes his head, although not in denial, but in playful rebuke at his uncle. “F’r shame, Uncle Davon. ’Tis f’r ye we’ve decided teh fight. Teh gi’ ye back the rights teh yer aun sword. Don’ tell mae ye d’nae appreciate all th’ effort we’re gae’ng teh.”

Irondirk frowns at him. _Fiercely._ “Wha’s there teh b’appreciative o’er? Ye’re destroyin’ yer aun future. ’Tis nae wee gift ye were given.”

“ _Gift?_ ” Masonmark sneers. “Th’ loss o’ our heritage... Watchin’ _yer_ own strength fade day by day... Tha’ _gift_ ye think sae keenly of? ’Twas bought wi’ freedom. Ye cannae e’en see it, can ye?” Masonmark leans closer to his uncle and sneers, “Ye’ve b’come one o’ the White Queen’s flock. Ye’re under ’er control nauw. Bu’ ye’ll see. Aye, soon, uncle; ye’ll see.”

With a decisive nod, Masonmark turns to Tarra and nods toward the fire. “C’mon back, lass. We’ve a Champion’s Challenge teh issue. An’ if’n ye’re still keen teh finish yer match with Champion Alice, we’ll need ye teh sign it.”

“Yes,” she agrees, her gaze lingering on Leif. “You know... it’s a shame you never could see my potential.”

“I see it now. Don’t send that challenge, Tarra,” he rumbles, ignoring their audience. “Stop this from happening.”

She considers him for a moment before smiling gently. “There’s no point in being afraid of your own destiny.” Her expression turns mockingly rueful. “I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

“This isn’t destiny Tarra—”

“This is _my choice_ ,” she replies cutting through his protest. “And I make my _own_ choices. Deal with it.”

And then she turns on her heel and strides back to the campfire. Irondirk glares after his nephew who gives Leif a mocking salute then joins his conspirators. Leif does not deign to give the lad one fraction of his attention. His gaze follows Tarra and Mally puzzles over their exchange. There had been something... something in the words or in their tone... Something... coded.

She considers it for a long moment before the rumbling of her empty stomach distracts her. How she can be hungry in the midst of the tunnel’s stench, she doesn’t know. With a sigh, she slides from the garment she has taken to concealing herself within and searches for a few crumbs no one will miss. She tries to be quick about it; it won’t do for Tarra to put on her cloak while Mally is out of it!

Nose pinched shut, she forages as quickly as she can and then dives back into her familiar cover. Sometimes it pays to be small...

And yet Mallymkun can think of a dozen ways to rescue the queen’s daughter if she were only _somewhat_ bigger!

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

When Tarrant opens his eyes, he is – understandably – confused. He searches his surroundings with his gaze even as he searches his memory for any recollection of how he’d come to be here (he even looks in the dark, dusty corners of his mind for clues) but is met with a rather frightening _blankness._

Fortunately, the strange bed he’s occupying is _not_ as empty as his box of Recent Recollections. Alice lies beside him, her face pale but her hair clean. She’s wearing a shrift he’s never seen before and – now that he thinks of it – he doesn’t recognize the one _he_ ’ _s_ wearing, either. He shifts, attempting to sit up, and winces as his left shoulder pulls and burns something fierce.

“Hm... shh... fine... e’erythin’s fine...” Alice mumbles, rolling over and pressing her nose against his right arm.

“Alice? Where are we?” He knows he should let her sleep – she obviously needs the rest – but this is Important.

“Safe... sleep...”

With a sigh, he lies back down and turns his face toward her mostly-dry hair. He frowns at that. When had she finally crawled into bed? But he thinks he can guess: after she’d gotten him inside this place, wherever they are (and he has the vague recollection of dread during the journey here but he can’t recall precisely why at the moment); after she had cleaned and dressed his wound; after she had bathed him and – yes, he realizes with a wobble of his head against the musty pillow – washed his hair; yes, sometime after all of that, Alice had probably bathed and permitted herself to sleep.

“My Champion,” he summarizes. She has never been and never will be anything else, no matter how many foodstuff exchanges she organizes or stews she cooks or books she reads or Upland visits she makes. Alice belongs here, with a sword at hand, her hair cropped short, and her skirts packed away in a trunk she’s long since lost the key to.

That is who Alice _is_ and he wishes he had never tried to change her.

He curls toward her, slides an arm around her waist and lets sleep escort him away from this foreign room again.

The next time he opens his eyes, Alice is cursing at him.

“Brangergain i’tall, Tarrant! I told you to lie on your back!”

“Humph?” he inquires as she pushes him rather forcefully flat on the bed.

He opens his mouth to apologize – he is not in any sort of shape whatsoever to indulge her in loveplay at the moment – but pauses when he sees how Worry tightens her mouth, crushes her brows together. “Alice...?” he asks.

“Hush. I’ve got to get the bleeding stopped.” He watches as she unlaces the front of his nightshirt and presses down on the bandages covering his shoulder. Oddly enough, the pressure doesn’t hurt but Alice seems quite Concerned.

“Th’ bleedin’?”

She looks up. “Yes. You probably can’t feel it because of the Pain Paste. Not the queen’s recipe, unfortunately. Numbs fantastically but doesn’t heal worth a snoutful of tove snot.” She smiles at him. “But don’t worry. We’ll get back to Mamoreal soon and then you’ll truly be on the mend.”

“Mamoreal?” he murmurs, thinking as fast as his fogged mind allows. “Where... is _here_ , then?”

“We’re safe,” she temporizes.

“Safe _where?_ ”

“Sleep,” she says, her fingers dipping into a nearby pot and then massaging his forehead. Only a moment later – as darkness begins to envelop him too quickly for it to be of a natural variety – does he realize that she must have used Sleep Saver on him. He determines it’s worth getting angry over – and he will be Very Angry indeed! – and that is the last thought he manages before the ointment does its work.

The third time he opens his eyes, he does so on a shiver. The room – windowless, he realizes – is nearly completely dark. The fire in the hearth has died down to glowing embers. He takes a deep breath and blinks through the muzziness of his head, trying to remember the correct way to work his brain, trying to make heads or tails of this nebulous thinking business.

“Now, don’t strain yourself, Tarrant. You know your logic isn’t up for all the deducing you’re forcing it through.”

Tarrant startles as a warm, male hand presses against his brow. He blinks up at the man who had most _definitely_ _ **not**_ been standing at his beside a moment ago.

“Chess?” he croaks, taking in the image of more-than-two-decades past Mad Hatter. A Hatter before the heart line, before fatherhood, before lairdship...

Despite wearing Tarrant’s form, Chessur’s smile is uniquely sharp, steeply curved, and utterly his own Cat Grin. His eyes glow their usual blue-green. “Good morning!”

“Is it?”

“Is it what, good?” Chessur replies with a wry twitch of wild, orange brows. “You’ll have to be the judge of that. Is it morning?  Somewhere it is, I’m sure. It’s inevitable enough, at any rate to be forgiven the anticipation of it. ”

Tarrant blinks and shivers.

“Ah, yes. Feverish. You’re quite wintery, at the moment.”

Tarrant frowns as Chessur meanders over to the hearth and begins flinging sticks onto the grate, one at a time, with delicate flicks of his wrist. For a moment, Tarrant thinks of the White Queen.

“How did you find us?” he rasps, wishing for a cup of water. And then, in conjunction with that thought, he hears himself say the word “us” and immediately makes a thorough effort to locate Alice. He sighs out a breath of relief when he does: she is inexplicably seated in a very inhospitable-looking chair on the other side of the bed, slumped forward on the mattress with her pale face pillowed on her arms.

“Mally sent me, of course, as she’s the only one who had an inkling of where the two of you had disappeared to... and the means to tell me circumspectly. Odd that she didn’t mention your injury... perhaps she doesn’t know?”

Tarrant slowly considers all of that. Tries... and fails. “Circumspectly?” he presses with a resigned sigh, latching onto the one word that is giving him the most trouble. Perhaps Chess is right: his logic isn’t up for any astounding feats of acrobatics at the moment.

“Yes, it appears our dear dormouse has managed to remain undiscovered by those bothersome, acne-infested rebels.” He rolls his eyes. “ _Rebels_ , indeed. They’ve taken a perfectly good word and reduced it to swaggering arrogance.”

“Well, I suppose you _would_ know a thing or two about that,” Tarrant muses.

“Of course I would!”

He smirks weakly at Chessur’s obvious pride in the fact. “Did you say Mally sent you?” he confirms after a moment.

Chessur finishes chucking bits of burnables into the fire and dusts off his hands then inspects his nails... thoroughly. “Yes. Why? You don’t honestly think I would have sniffed you out like one of those _dogs_ , do you?”

“Scratch of a Bandersnatch, Chess,” he mutters, shaking his head, “Fates help us all if you ever got it into your furry, evaporating head to take the initiative for once and be heroic without effusive prompting.”

“ _Heroic?_ ” the Cheshire Cat sneers, still wearing Tarrant’s pale face and battered (from the Knave’s _enthusiastic_ “hospitality”) body. “Just what have I done _recently_ to deserve having profanity spewed at me, Tarrant?”

“I’m sure I can think of something...”

“While you’re doing that, shall I put Alice to bed? Or would you like to register an objection?”

“No objections whatsoever. Please proceed.”

Chessur does. Tarrant watches as the Other Hatter kneels down beside Alice’s chair and gently maneuvers her head and shoulders back against his chest. With one arm wrapped around her, he reaches out and twitches the bedclothes aside. Then, with a graceful motion that is part mist and part Hatter-ness, he gathers Alice into his arms and settles her on the mattress.

“You’ve some skill with putting someone to bed,” Tarrant observes softly, mindful of waking Alice when she so obviously needs to rest.

“There are _four_ juvenile jabberwockies, you know.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Now,” Chess continues, standing and sniffing the air delicately. “You’re developing a fever and I can already smell that the festering has started. It’s time we cleaned those wounds of yours.”

“’Twas a knife, no’ a Bandersnatch tha’ got me.”

Chessur gives him a knowing look. “Correct me if I’m under a misapprehension, but did you – more or less – swim through the gum of the slough on your way here? The gum which, may I remind you, was once teeming with decomposing beheaded bodies? If you think the Bandersnatch’s claws are unhygienic...”

“All righ’, all righ’,” he concedes.

“I find it rather interesting that you bipeds tend to insist on everything being ’all right’ especially when you are in the wrong...” Chessur muses in a clinical tone as he beings to loosen the bandages over Tarrant’s upper chest and shoulder.

“By the way,” Tarrant remarks, knowing that what he’s about to say is not _by the way_ at all, but rather _a saganistute detour around an impending cat-sarcasm-induced spat_. “Where is _Here?_ ”

Chessur’s brows arch. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out for yourself yet, given the fact that you’re aware of your general location in Underland _and_ the fact that you once spent an incomparable amount of energy trying to get inside this very structure... Although, considering the circumstances at the time, I can understand why Alice would not have been in any rush to educate you on precisely whose hospitality you are both taking advantage of at the moment.”

Tarrant gapes, thoroughly flunderwhapped. “This... this is...!”

“Yes, yes,” Chessur replies, parting the bandages with practiced ease and delicacy. “Jaspien’s castle. Don’t ask me how Alice got the man to agree to take you both in. I’ve only just arrived and this was my first stop so – for once! – I know as little as you about the matter.”

Tarrant shivers as his chest is bared to the still-cool air.

“Hm... Well. This explains a lot,” the cat muses, narrowing his eyes and observing the wound.

Curious as well, Tarrant looks down at the small, but very deep stab wound. He looks and then he gawks. The knife had landed not too far from his heart, actually, and he actually wonders if Masonmark had thrown it hard enough to break through bone and pose a serious threat to his heart had it hit its intended target.  But even if it hadn’t been given the necessary momentum, Tarrant can only imagine what sort of havoc would have been caused if the knife had plunged into his Heart Mark.

Still, the damage done is not insignificant: the blade had sliced through one of the twining veins of the heart line. Even now, he can see not only his own dark blue blood seeping out of the gash, but Alice’s dark _red_ blood as well. Thoughts of the wonderful numbing properties of whatever salve Alice had used on him are completely overwhelmed by the evidence that Alice had towed him to the end of the tunnel _and_ through the swamp _and then_ from there to this castle while _she_ had been bleeding _through_ _ **his**_ _severed heart line!_

“Dear sweet Fates...” he breathes.

“Yes. No wonder she’s utterly spent, hm?” Chessur muses. “Still, I suppose it’s quite fortunate the knife hit you where it did. Another smidgeon to the south here and the heart line would have been broken completely.”

Tarrant examines the afflicted area again and shivers: Chess is correct. If he had twitched just a little to the side... Masonmark might have cut his heart line in twine. Tarrant takes a moment to study his bonding mark, from the tip of his heart-line finger to his heart. The color is as dark and deeply crimson as it ever has been... which means that new blood is somehow replacing the blood that he loses through the wound... and it has cost his Alice _dearly_. The deficit his injury had created has, in fact, been paid with her own blood!

“Let’s get on with things, please, Chess,” he lisps softly, his gaze drawn to where Alice lies utterly motionless in the bed. “Mend Alice.”

“I was waiting on you,” the cat-that-is-currently-a-hatter replies. “Although, I’m afraid what I’m about to do may neutralize whatever that noxious ointment is that is obviously numbing the wound...”

“’Tis fine.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you...” Chessur sing-songs and then shifts into a smiling cat before getting to work.

And, _oh how it_ _ **burns!**_ Tarrant presses his head back against the stiff, musty pillow, glares at the ceiling, grits his teeth and fists his hands. The strong grip is necessary, he finds, for holding back the whine snaking up his throat.

“There,” Chessur says finally, leaning back and licking his cat chops. “Just like old times. You’re even in a dungeon room. How... literary.”

Tarrant pants and slowly relaxes his fists. The miraculous numbness is gone, yes, but his head feels sharper, wittier, faster than before, for which he is Very Thankful

Chessur once again resumes Tarrant’s shape and begins stitching up the gash in his chest.

During this moment of silence, Tarrant sorts through his most recent memories and accuses, “Alice drugged me.”

“At the time, what with her own weakness to contend with, perhaps it was for the best,” Chessur, interestingly enough, defends her.

“Aye. Perhaps...” _Still...!_

“Or perhaps she was not thinking clearly.”

 _Well, aye..._ Tarrant nods reluctantly.

“Were I you, I would be more concerned with what she might have promised or bargained in order to secure Jaspien’s assistance.”

 _That_ gets Tarrant’s attention!

“ _Do_ try to keep your priorities well-ordered and ranked, Tarrant,” Chessur says, whooshing back into his usual cat-self and flicking his tail with a satisfied huff. “Now, would you like me to look in on our host and see what he’s up to?”

Tarrant stares at Chessur, marveling that the cat had just dared to _care_ enough to stop Tarrant from allowing his own feelings of betrayal and wounded pride to quite possibly come between himself and Alice. Especially here; especially _now_ when things are so frighteningly uncertain. If only Chess had deigned to intercede years ago when Tarrant had been charged with explaining the origins and severity of Alice’s madness to her...

“Chess?” he asks just as the cat begins to dissolve, apparently not requiring a response to his question. Although, in Chessur’s case, mere curiosity is reason enough to commence with Spying Activities.

“Yes?” A grin and pair of glowing eyes point themselves in his direction.

“Why is it we can never be civil to each other unless I’m either dying or...” He swallows thickly. _Or Alice_ ’ _s life is in danger?_

Even without eyebrows, Chessur manages to look condescending. “Probably because you look unusually wretched and pitiful when you’re at Death’s Door and even _I_ can’t find any enjoyment in taunting a man when he’s down as far and as flat as he _can_ be flattened.”

Tarrant’s brows twitch in time with his snort of wry acknowledgement.

“Although... we might want to consider avoiding those circumstances which tend to engender us favorably toward each other... if for no one’s sake other than Alice’s. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Tha’ friendship and cooperation is our last resort an’ it ought teh stay tha’ way? Aye. Agreed.”

“In which case, I shall look forward to resuming our _usual_ familial animosity. And _now_ ,” the cat continues in a catty tone. “ _If_ you have no other maudlin observations you feel are _vitally_ important at this precise moment, I shall see what there is to see around here.”

“Be gone.”

And, with a wink, he is.

Tarrant smiles. Bloody bulloghin’ boggletogs, who would have thought Chessur would be a cause for smiling while Tarrant is bed-bound and Alice unconscious in the keep of Causwick Castle?

 _Ye live laung enough an_ ’ _e_ ’ _en th_ ’ _impossible will happen, lad._

Indeed it will, and indeed it has.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“How are we gonna find out if that man was telling the truth?” Tamial Hightopp – undiscovered yet soon-to-be-world-renowned savant! – muses aloud, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom in his cousin’s house. If he closes his eyes and strains his ears, he knows he’ll be able to hear the traffic. Although, having been dragged through the muck and mire of it _twice_ today, he doesn’t find the sound very soothing anymore. Shukm on the streets! Ew!

“I beg your pardon?” Win says in an interestingly surprised tone.

Tam turns his head and looks at his cousin’s feet where they dangle next to his head over the side of the bed. ( _A rhyme!_ his Fa would say.) “Well, maybe I’m not the Queen’s Champion like my Mam, but I’m pretty sure we should, you know, confirm some of that before...”

Before Win does something Stupid.

“Confirm. Right. How’re we going to do that?”

Tam glares at the feet in front of his nose and resists sticking his still-stockinged foot in front of his snooty cousin’s snout. “I don’t know...”

“Well, then keep your unhelpful _suggestions_ to yourself and let me think!”

Tam sits up on his elbows, making the bed bounce, and glares at Win. “Sure. Pardon _me_ for trying to help!”

He rolls himself off the end of the bed and stomps over to the window. It’s raining again. Wonderful. He tries not to look too closely at the streets below and churned-up sludge of Disgusting. Despite that, he almost wishes there _was_ someplace he and Win could go. Even if it’s the library or some other boring, silent room! Just so long as Win stops being such a... a... a _fumptwat!_

Tam sighs. “I still say we should ask my Fa about it. He _must_ know something. He and Uncle Hamish have been friends for... well, since I was born, right? He’d know. He’d tell us the truth.”

“Do you _really_ believe that?” Win, obviously, is Skeptical.

“Well, you think it would be better to ask _your father?_ ”

“ _My_ father is dead. Which is rather the problem at hand,” Win snipes back.

“So what are we gonna do about it?” Tam says. “Right,” he continues as Win frowns darkly and opens his mouth to spew more snark. “What can we get Uncle Hamish to confirm without making him realize what we’re doing?”

Contemplative silence settles in the room for the first time since Win had grouched and grumbled his way through his lessons. Yes, last night had been bad – trying to hide their knew Knowledge from Aunt Margaret and Uncle Hamish – but today... _today...!_ Tam has never seen anyone so determined to be as miserable and angry as possible!

He relishes the almost-peace in the room.

“The ship name?” Win suggests slowly.

“Yes!” Tam agrees excitedly. “We could ask him to tell us about the company, about the ships! There’s no reason he won’t tell us if The Waymaker – that was the ship your father sailed on to America, right? – was owned by the company!” Tam turns away from the window and flops back down on the bed, jostling Win. “What else?” he presses.

Win sighs. “No idea.”

Tam’s rush of excitement fizzles out. He lets out a long breath and folds his hands under his chin. Clicking and clunking his heels together, he mutters, “There must be something else. Some way to _check..._ ”

Win huffs, “Still waiting for you to be brilliant, Hightopp.”

Tam scowls at him. “I _am_ brilliant!”

“So prove it!”

Tam glares at his cousin, who glares back, until Win looks away. Smirking in self-congratulations at winning the stare-off, Tam turns away and looks across the room. He’s not really paying attention to what he’s looking at as he’s trying to produce some Brilliance. (The trouble is that it doesn’t seem to respond well to a command to appear! Well, what good is being brilliant if Tam can’t do brilliant stuff whenever he wants? Maybe another hero-power would be more reliable...)

He’s gazing at the tall, up-right standing mirror in the corner when he hears himself wonder aloud, “Wouldn’t it be great if you could use the mirror to see the truth?”

The idea is so Surprising that Tam actually stops breathing. Beside him, Win seems to pause as well.

“What do you mean? Looking glass travel?”

Tam answers slowly, searching for each word one at a time. “Maybe... Like, maybe we could... spy on people...”

Win sits up. “Can you _do_ that? Take us to that man’s house or something so we could watch him or read his journals or something?”

Frowning thoughtfully at the mirror, Tam says, “No... I think that’s the same problem: how do we know if he’s telling the _truth?_ ”

Frustrated, Win demands, “So, what _are_ you saying?”

“I... don’t know.”

“What a surprise.” Win falls back on the bed and continues being a fumptwat.

Tam, his attention fixed on the reflection of himself in the looking glass, crawls off of the bed and approaches it.

“What are doing?” Win demands on an exasperated sigh.

Tam doesn’t answer. He stares into his own golden-brown-orangey eyes, and then he looks _through_ them. He looks _into_ the mirror. “The past,” he whispers, reaching out to the glass, drawn by some strange force. “Show us the duel between Uncle Hamish and Lowell Manchester...”

“Tam...?”

Tam doesn’t reply. He glimpses shadows moving under the surface of the mirror. Just... just _there_ beneath the silvery shine... If he just leans a little closer...

“Tam!”

A wind that is not a wind blows through his mind which has become the mirror... or has the mirror become _him?_ Does it matter? The shapes and shadows catch his thoughts and tumble them away. There’s something _there_ waiting for him to _look_ and if he can get just a little closer...!

“Show us the duel...” he murmurs. “Show us who killed Lowell Manchester...”

And then a hand grabs his wrist...

… just as the wind-that-is-an-ocean-current within the looking glass jerks his legs out from under him and he’s falling into the silvery depths.

 


	9. Reflections of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is **rated M** for domestic violence and other mature themes.

 

“Where are we?”

Tamial Hightopp – master of mirror magic and supplier of stupendous surprises – doesn’t answer his cousin’s dumbstruck question. Obviously, they are in a forest. The leaves have long since turned autumn colors and many carpet the earth. Considering the thick frost on the ground, Tam thinks he ought to feel colder than he does, but he doesn’t feel cold at all. As his mother would say: “Curiouser and curiouser.”

“That’s not an answer,” Win grumps in response to his mumbled observation. “Nor do I believe ’curiouser’ is a word.”

Tam snorts out a laugh. “You know, sometimes you sound just like Uncle Hamish.”

Win scowls. “What are we doing here? Was that Looking Glass Travel?”

“Er... yes. We went through the mirror... I think.”

“You _think?_ ”

“How should I know if that was normal Looking Glass Travel or something else? It doesn’t usually feel all windy and swirly. And I’ve never opened a mirror myself before, all right?”

“This is _not_ all right,” Win declares. “We don’t even know where we _are!_ ”

Tam backs up a step and raises his brows. “ _You_ were the one who wanted to try it! What’s wrong with _you?_ ” A day ago, Win would have been over the moon with delight at finally having tried Looking Glass Travel!

Win snipes back, “What’s wrong with _me?_ Not a bloody thing!”

Tam winces at the swear word.

“I’m just _fine!_ Bloody _fine!_ My dad maybe killed my father so he could marry my mum. _Everything_ _ **is FINE!**_ ”

Tam flinches as the shout echoes in the forest. Given the frost on the ground, it’s very early morning rather than very late evening and Win is going to wake _somebody_ up if he keeps bellowing like that!

“ _ **AND NOW WE**_ ’ _ **RE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE AND—AND—!**_ ”

Luckily, Win can’t think of an _and_ after that. Tam lets out the breath he’d been holding. After a moment of tense silence, during which Win does _not_ start shouting again, Tam says, “I was thinking about the duel. Your dad and Lord Manchester’s. And... who really killed Lord Manchester. You know, when I looked into the mirror.”

This seems to appease Win. Slightly. “Well, I don’t see any duels taking place right now—”

But even as he announces his complaint, the sound of an approaching carriage click-clack-crunches closer.

“There!” Tam says, pointing to a concealed trail not too far off. Indeed, just _there_ is a carriage rolling along the rarely-used ruts that are meant to be a road through the forest. “C’mon!” Tam urges his cousin. Without looking over his shoulder to see if Win is following, Tam takes off after the coach. He frowns after a few strides when he realizes he can’t hear Win behind him. He stumbles to a halt and turns. Win nearly crashes into him.

Rather than berate him for his clumsiness, Win observes, “You’re not making any noise.”

“Neither are you.” Experimentally, Tam reaches out to the nearest tree trunk and presses his hand against it. Nothing happens to the trunk of the tree, of course. Tam’s hand, however...

“Watch out!” Win shouts, pulling Tam’s arm back. They both stare at Tam’s fingers which had, momentarily, disappeared _into_ the tree.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Tam assures him. “See?” He wiggles his fingers to prove it.

“Let me try that!” Win presses his own hand against the tree. They both watch him sink up to his shoulder and his hand _reappears_ out the other side of the trunk.

“That’s...” Tam says, feeling his eyes widen.

“Brilliant!” Win declares.

Feeling a bit enpuffed, Tam reminds him, “Well, that _was_ what you wanted, right? Something brilliant?”

Win laughs. “I can always count on you.”

Tam smirks.

The carriage, however, has already rolled to a stop in the distance.

“C’mon!” Win orders and takes off through the woods.

They stumble to a halt behind a pair of trees lining a small clearing. In front of them, the carriage sits, its driver dozing and horse huffing.

“You know,” Win whispers. “I heard duels are often fought in places like this. Because they’re not permitted. You can get arrested and fined for fighting in one.”

“Really?” How different things are in Underland where it’s his Mam’s _job_ to fight in duels! Or, at least, it _used_ to be...

Tam turns toward the unmarked carriage. “Who do you suppose is inside?”

Win grins. “Let’s find out!”

They creep forward, mindful of staying out of sight of the driver and horse. But, again, they make no noise as they move so neither turn in their direction. They pause next to the coach and Tam contemplates the curtains covering the windows and the step hanging down under the door. If they can’t _touch_ the step, how are they going to...?

“Of course!” Tam hisses, experiencing a brainwave.

Win shushes him but, again, none one seems to be the wiser.

“Watch this!” Tam demands and presses his own _face_ through the side of the carriage. He opens his eyes once he’s sure he’s through. He grins as Win tries to yank him back, but he doesn’t relent until he’s gotten a good look at the coach’s occupant.

“It looks like a doctor,” he reports after he lets Win pull him back outside.

“A...? Wait, that didn’t hurt?” he squawks, forgetting to keep quiet.

“I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Really?!”

“Try it.”

He does. Tam watches as Win’s entire head disappears through the carriage wall and then reappears when he leans back. “Brilliant!”

“I told you so.”

“The doctor didn’t even see me!”

Tam considers this. “I don’t think anyone can. Or hear us,” he muses, considering all the racket they’d been making with each new discovery of their abilities here.

Before Win can suggest putting either of those speculations to the test, another carriage clatters and clunks up the forest road. Again, it is unmarked, but Win squints at the driver.

“That looks like Grandfather Manchester’s driver...”

“So that must be your father in that carriage,” Tam deduces.

Win nods slowly. He looks rather nervous all of a sudden and Tam realizes that he has no memory of his father. “You’ve only seen him in photographs, right?”

“That I can recall...”

“Then let’s go have a look at him.” Tam jogs across the clearing daringly, right out in the open! No one seems to see him at all. Grinning, he approaches the carriage which stops, rocking gently on its springs. He can hear a muffled voice and a request:

“... wish you would tell me what Ascot did or said to provoke this.”

Tam frowns. That voice sounds oddly familiar...

“That was not part of our agreement,” a second man replies. “You’re here to watch Ascot be humiliated—”

“True. And I’m very much looking forward to it.”

“—and to keep my blasted brother-in-law from getting in the way.”

“Yes. I remember.”

Tam glances at Win and then both boys put their faces through the carriage wall. Tam examines Lowell Manchester’s face first as it looks very much like Win’s. Except Win has never looked _that_... mean. Not even just now in the forest when he’d been screaming at him over their accidental Looking Glass Travel.

“Ascot will likely choose foils. I hope you still remember which is the pointy end,” the other man muses, turning away from the window to smirk at Manchester. Beside him, Win gasps. Of course, it goes unnoticed by both men in the carriage.

“What is it?” Tam whispers, wary of speaking over an important revelation.

“The man from the pawn shop!” Win replies, reaching his arm through and pointing.

Tam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell us he was at the duel that day?”

“I don’t know...”

“Ah! That sounds like another carriage,” the second man remarks, pushing aside the curtain with his cane. “And here I half expected him to get cold feet.”

Lowell Manchester doesn’t answer. He watches through the window. Tam pulls his head outside for a moment to see the approaching carriage. When the Ascot coach comes to a halt and the door opens, Tam yanks on Win’s sleeve.

“Look! _Look!_ ”

Turning, he does. And gapes.

“That’s...!”

“Uncle Hamish,” Tam finishes, still gaping.

They share incredulous stares. Once upon a time, eleven years ago, the man _had_ been rather fit. Finally, Tam finds himself able to _imagine_ his uncle fighting a duel. Luckily, he won’t _have to_ imagine anything! Why very soon now they’ll...

Tam’s thoughts spiral away from him as the Ascot carriage door opens once more... and his own Fa steps out!

“Tam! What is _your father_ doing here?”

He doesn’t know. He’d never heard _anything_ about this! _Ever!_

No, he has no idea what his Fa is doing at Uncle Hamish’s duel, but he suspects he’s About To Find Out!

 

*~*~*~*

 

Alice sleeps as if this is the last chance she will ever have to enjoy the activity. She is so utterly still that Tarrant has to press his hand against her ribcage just to reassure himself that she’s still breathing. He touches her brow to check for one of those strange, contrary, _hot_ fevers Uplanders are prone to. But she is fine. Simply... exhausted.

She even sleeps through the delivery of tea and the meal, although _which_ meal it is, he can’t say as there are no windows in the room and thus no clues as to the time of day.

Tarrant does not recognize the woman who brings the tray, but she glances at Alice, a fond smile turning the corners of her mouth up.

“Poor dearlin’,” she whispers. “’Ave ’er eat a bit o’ this ginger bread soaked in tea firs’. She needs strength afore she can manage th’ stew.”

Tarrant can’t resist asking, “D’ye happen teh know Alice from when she was here... afore?”

“Och, the lass was summat!” the woman replies. “A righ’ laugh th’ way she carried on, leadin’ them warmongerin’ louts about by their noses!”

Tarrant blinks. _That_ is not what he would have expected to hear at _all_ about the time Alice had been held prisoner here. Why, even now he can remember the constant rolling- _burning-_ _ **aching-SAVE-ME!**_ that had assaulted him during Alice’s every waking moment through the heart line. It appears that Alice had been far more successful at fooling everyone in Causwick than he’d ever imagined possible. But, then again, shame on him for underestimating Alice’s abilities to shape the impossible into Something Possible!

“’Tis a shame teh see ’er again like _this_ , though,” the woman – either a maid or a housekeeper here – continues. “Back when th’ ground a-gyer’d an’ a-gimbled an’ we heard she went Up Thar... well, we was all cheerin’ fer ’er teh take up ’er sword an’ cleave those greizin’ guddler’s shukm – Val’reth an’ Oshtyer.”

Tarrant can’t help the twitch of his lips at her enthusiasm for seeing those two come to harm. “Ye di’nae take a likin’ teh either o’ ’em?”

“Oshtyer!” she spits. “Th’ booly geber was a’ways tryin’ teh get one o’ us girls on ’er one-some! Th’ prince woul’ put tha’ blighter in ’is place but tha’ Val’reth...” She shakes her head. “He ne’er di’ naught teh help us... ’Tis fortunate we aul look afteh each o’her here!” She nods decisively. “Sae, ye ask mae if’n I di’nae take a likin’ teh ’em. Nae, I mos’ certainly di’nae!”

“But... th’ twine o’ them were here on Jaspien’s invitation...” He frowns. “Yet ye d’nae cast blame on Jaspien fer...?”

“A mahn’s o’ly teh blame fer ’is aun faults. An’ considerin’ m’laird’s greatest desire is teh b’free o’ this wretched place, ’is punishment fer ’is err’ in judgmen’twas severe enough.” The woman pauses and _looks_ at Tarrant. “Ye’ll tell th’ White Queen, aye? Tha’ m’laird ’as paid enough fer ’is crimes? ’Twasnae o’ly hisself he was thinkin’ o’ gettin’ better lands fer... Thar’s a fair number o’ us who ’ave nae place else teh go... who serve ’im b’cause he doesnae judge our crimes sae harshly...”

“Yer crimes?” he parrots in disbelief. He cannot imagine this matronly woman guilty of anything more frightening than stealing chicken eggs!

“Aye,” she says sadly. “Murder ’tis still frowned upon in th’ White Realm, las’ I heard.”

Tarrant regards her in stunned silence.

“Murder is murder,” she lectures him, lectures herself. “E’en if’n ’twas an accident. Or e’en if’n ’twas fer th’ best. M’laird’s a kenfull mahn, Laird Hightopp. An’ e’en th’ best o’ men ’ave their foolish moments. He’s nae perfect nor e’en saganstitute.” With a wry grin, she summarizes, “I woul’ ne’er expec’ tha’... None o’ us woul’. We’ve all o’ us ’ere made th’ same mistakes. Our laird, tae.”

Tarrant winces as a deep throb vibrates unevenly through his heart line. His hand, still resting on Alice’s shoulder, stirs, soothes. He knows she’s awake now, that she’d heard this woman’s plea.

“Gingerbread an’ tea,” the woman reminds him. “Then ge’ ’er teh try a bit o’ tha’ stew.”

He nods and waits until their visitor has closed the door behind her before turning toward his wife. “Alice?” he whispers.

“I’ve failed. Failed her and the others here,” she mouths without opening her eyes. He feels the sting of misery over his heart and carefully brushes her tangled hair back away from her eyes. “I should have realized...”

“Hush. Ye cannae save e’eryone,” he murmurs.

“I’m supposed to _try_ ,” she argues. “I’m not supposed to run away and leave people like her behind...”

Alice’s exhaustion is a beast he can feel bludgeoning her; he can Feel her unhappiness and malcontent and guilt and self-flagellation resonating in the blood of hers that he carries beneath his skin. “Ye need teh eat sommat, Alice,” he replies.

“Not hungry.”

“Laung pas’ ’ungry, ye mean.” Tarrant pours the tea, soaks the black spice bread and coos, “Open up, nauw, lass. ’Tis th’ Brunch Bandersnatch a-galumphin’ teh ye.”

“Want th’ Bedtime Bandersnatch,” she grouses, but obligingly opens her mouth. It’s awkward feeding her with one hand but the fact that she doesn’t even remember his injuries speaks volumes of her own state. But, just as the housekeeper had predicted, a slice of warm, soggy gingerbread later and Alice is opening her eyes.

At which time, of course, she Remembers.

“Tarrant! Oh, bloody...! Are you all right? Here, lie back and I’ll—”

“Ye’ll do naught. Chessur’s been by.” Despite his command, she pulls herself into a sitting position and fusses with his bandages. “Cleaned an’ stitched it. I’m fine.”

Seeing this for herself, Alice lets out a long sigh as she replaces the bandages. “Chessur’s here?” she confirms. “Did you send him on to Mamoreal?”

“Nae,” he replies, his brogue reasserting itself along with the Upsetting Possibilities the cat had raised regarding Jaspien and Alice and... “He’s looking in on our host... Ye di’nae tell me we were in bloody Causwick Castle!”

She nods, resignation slumping her shoulders. “I know.”

“Ye drugged mae, Alice,” he burrs, his accent thickening.

“Yes, I did.”

“An’ whot gehd woul’ I ’a been teh ye then were Jaspien teh come by expectin’ _payment_ fer ’is hospitality?”

He sees he has surprised her with that. She looks up at him, frowning. The heart line lopsidedly transmits her confusion. “What?”

“ _Tha_ ’ ’tis precisely my question, Alice,” he replies, struggling not to let his temper gain control of him. “What di’ye promise th’ mahn in exchange fer helpin’ us?”

She reaches out to place a – most likely – comforting hand on his brow, but he remembers when she had done that before and had massaged Sleep Saver into his mind with her fingertips.

He flinches.

She notices.

Alice retracts her hand as if she fears he will bite it. Instantly, he is sorry. So very sorry. He knows she Feels it. Her expression softens but she doesn’t reach for him again. “I needed you to sleep and to stay still. You needed the rest but you would move and reopen the wound and... I was so tired I couldn’t... I’m sorry. I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Neither was I just now.” _He_ reaches for _her_ and she permits him to draw her close until her arm is around his waist and her breath puffs against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Alice.”

“As am I.” She sighs. “I’m glad Chess came. How did he find us?”

“Mally sent him.”

Alice snorts. “It’s a good thing we have so many friends to lecture him on doing the Right Thing.”

He chuckles his agreement.

“So Mally is safe? At Mamoreal?”

“Not precisely, no,” their erstwhile friend replies, materializing before them with a charming grin. “She’s currently hiding in Princess Tarranya’s cloak hood, keeping an eye on said princess – who seems to be getting along rather swimmingly with the – _ahem_ – rebels.” Tarrant rolls his eyes at Chessur’s sarcasm. “Mally has also charged herself with fretting over the imminent stupidity of the rebels’ two captives. A lion man and a steelsmith I’m sure you’re both acquainted with.”

“Oh, bloody boggletogs,” Alice mutters, closing her eyes on a frustrated sigh.

“All in good time,” Chess does _not_ reassure them. “Apparently this rag-tag rabble seems to think they can force the queen to step down. If I still understand Outlandish correctly, then their rally-cry is the freedom to bear arms.” Chessur rolls his eyes. “Only Outlanders would be proud to call themselves descendants of _mercenaries._ ”

Alice’s brows arch.

Chessur then turns toward Tarrant and comments, “ _If_ you were still curious as to what your esteemed host is up to at the moment... Well, he seems to think he’s going somewhere despite the queen’s edict for him to remain _inside_ his castle until the end of Underland. Unless Underland _has_ ended and I am unaware of it... _or_ he amuses himself day in and day out with packing a trunk for the sole purpose of dragging it around the keep for exercise...”

“He’s requested an escort to Mamoreal,” Alice admits with obvious reluctance. “That was what he asked for... and what I’ve promised him.”

“Did he now? That _is_ interesting...” Chessur purrs. “Well, I suppose even _I_ would grow tired of the lovely view from _these_ ramparts were I forced to look upon them for the last nearly-twenty years.”

Tarrant ignores the cat, as usual, and asks a _pertinent_ question: “Why does he want to go to Mamoreal?”

“I wasn’t in any condition to ask at the time,” Alice replies. “So I don’t know. Chess,” she continues, turning toward the cat.

“Yes, Alice?”

“I need a favor or few.”

He sighs. “I thought as much. Well, get on with it.”

“Go to Mamoreal and have a carriage sent for us along with a dozen members of the guard. And a medicinal kit of properly brewed medicines would be useful.”

“That’s one favor... possibly one-and-a-half,” he remarks, counting aloud. “And the next?”

“Reassure the queen that everything is fine and she should _not_ be listening to Sir Fenruffle right now.”

“And what do you imagine he’s saying?”

“Well, _if_ they’ve spoken to Bayto and _if_ they’ve found detailed diagrams of the tunnels, he’ll be wanting to assemble an armed force and attack.”

“Oh, dear. He does have the penchant for being rather... action-oriented, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s my fault. I gave him the taste for dramatic heroics when I had him act as our distraction.” At Tarrant’s inquisitive grunt, she elucidates, “Er, when the queen and I tried to escape Valereth’s mercenaries at the Southern Crossroads Inn.”

Tarrant vaguely recalls something about a battered Fenruffle, a twitchy and hovering Nivens providing wound care and... something about Thackery and scones...?

Chessur observes, “He still wears those Jubjub-gotten scars with pride.”

“He does. Feather-brained pompous...”

“Anything else, Alice?” Chessur purs.

“No... Yes!” She sends Tarrant a sheepish grin before addressing Chessur. “Don’t tell Sir Fenruffle I called him feather-brained or pompous.”

“And I was _so_ looking forward to that!” he bemoans, smiling.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Before I forget,” Chess continues rotating lazily on a swirling cloud of Cheshire essence, “You probably _shouldn_ ’ _t_ hold Tarrant accountable for insinuating that you might have considered... _submitting_ to Jaspien in exchange for succor... I believe _I_ was the one who suggested it first.”

“I don’t doubt that either,” Alice replies as Tarrant marvels at the effort Chess is making... for _him._ For Alice. For someone _other than his own cat self._ Tarrant regards the cat skeptically; less than an hour ago by the feel of the time, they had both agreed not to _be_ friends but, perhaps, this sort of subtlety will be permissible between them from now on...

“You have a _gift_ for stirring up trouble, Cat,” she concludes with a wry grin.

Although cats can smile, they cannot chuckle, which is a shame for Tarrant is _sure_ Chess would be indulging in that very gesture of humor Right Now if only he could. On a whisper and a whoosh, the cat disappears and Tarrant leans over and presses his lips to Alice’s temple.

“Did you _honestly_ think I would... with... with... _him?_ ” she asks hesitantly, clearly referring to Jaspien and the demand that would have sent Tarrant into unavoidable and inconsolable madness.

“Chessur,” he replies slowly and with brutal honesty, “knows the identity of each and every one of my Greatest Fears, I’m afraid. And he has always been exceedingly talented at reintroducing me to them.”

“That one,” she answers, reaching for his right hand and grasping it tightly, “will _never_ happen.”

“Another promise, Alice,” he warns her softly.

“Accept it,” she bids him and he is startled to hear the trace of fear in her voice and a sudden uneasiness along the damaged heart line. He imagines himself, dying... What _wouldn_ ’ _t_ Alice do to save him? He shivers.

“I choose us,” he reminds her, not denying her oath.

“Us,” she agrees and then Silence wraps itself around them, warm and comforting in this strange room, in the dominion of a man who is _still_ their enemy.

It’s quite a while before they get around to eating the stew. It is cold and congealed and not at all appealing, but it fills their stomachs and helps them sleep. Tarrant allows the darkness to take him away from the aching, stinging pain of his wound and the uncertainty in his mind.

If history holds true and the present follows the same pattern as the past, then they will need their strength soon, he knows.

Very soon.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tamial Hightopp – secret sorcerer of Time and Place – gawks, unabashedly, with his mouth hanging wide open. It’s a good thing that it’s late autumn _here_ and there are no flies buzzing around, because he’s pretty sure he would have caught one or two in his gaping maw. Of course, it’s also a good thing that the things and people _here_ don’t seem to hear or see him. Those flies probably would have buzzed right through his head and kept on going...

“Did your father just...?” Win rasps.

“I... think so,” Tam admits as the verbal argument heats up in the small field. As unbelievable as it had been to watch Uncle Hamish duel – and duel _well_ at that! – it had been even _more_ shocking to watch his own Fa throw a knife with a _tiny flick of his wrist_ and strike Lowell Manchester’s companion in the shoulder with it. Accusations are thrown, guns are mentioned, the duel is called to a halt and threats are issued (by Lowell Manchester to Uncle Hamish) and then everyone is climbing back into their respective carriages.

“Twimble fumpt,” Tam swears – part of him thrilling with glee at the liberty of saying the forbidden words and the knowledge that no one can possibly catch him at it! – and turns to Win. “Who do we follow?”

Win looks back and forth between the two carriages for a too-long moment. “My father,” he finally declares and Tam rolls his eyes.

“Which one?”

“Lowell,” Win replies, eyes narrowed at Tam’s sarcasm.

And then, as Tam turns toward the carriage, he realizes Their Problem. “Uh, how are we going to get inside... and _stay_ inside?”

Win gives him a panicky glance.

 _So it_ ’ _s up to me to figure it out..._ _ **again**_ , Tam acknowledges. “Bluddy bulloghin’ boggletogs...” he mutters, glaring at the carriage. The driver begins gathering the reigns. Well, one way or another, they’ll know if they have any _other_ abilities in his place.

Tam lifts his foot, frowning with resolution, and places it on the carriage step. Stands up. And stays there. He grins. “Grab on!” he calls to Win as he focuses on grasping the nearest protrusion and braces himself with his Will. “Grab on and _mean it!_ ” he orders.

Win complies, his expression morphing from a fierce scowl into a grin of delight in the second it takes the driver to crack the reigns and the horse to take off.

“Does this mean we can touch other people if we _really_ think about it?” Win asks as the wind does _not_ blow through their hair or snatch away their words.

“I don’t know!” Tam admits. “Wouldn’t it be _great_ if we could?!”

The ride is long and bumpy but the poor performance of the coach’s wheels over the rutted forest road and then the country lane and then the gunk-filled London streets never bothers them. Tam inhales deeply, relishing the lack of coal dust and the absence of shukm-stink in the air. They wind though the maze that is The Great Upland City until the carriage clatters to a stop in front of a residence Tam has never seen before. He glances at Win, who is frowning up at the building.

“You know this place?”

“No,” his cousin replies, stepping down from the carriage. Tam does likewise. The sun has risen, but it’s still early and not many people are out and about. The carriage door opens slowly and Lowell Manchester’s companion gives the street a brief inspection before pulling Win’s father outside.

“Roberts,” Lowell calls to the driver.

“Yes, sir?”

“After he sees me inside, Mr. Blakefield will require transport home.”

“Very good, sir.”

Tam and Win follow the pair of men up the stairs. “What do you think?” Tam whispers, despite knowing no one except Win can hear him. “Do we stay with Lowell or go with Blakefield?”

“Lowell,” Win decides again.

A startled-looking butler – far more animated than Mr. Brown! – pulls open the door and Blakefield more or less drops Lowell into the man’s arms.

“Do let me know the details of the next meeting, won’t you?” he drawls, already turning on his heel and trotting down the steps.

Lowell doesn’t answer. “Get me inside, damn you!” he barks at the still gaping butler.

“Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, sir!”

Tam and Win scuttle through the open doorway before the butler manages to close it. It seems silly, Tam realizes as he stands in the foyer of the grand but unfamiliar house, to have rushed. They probably could have just _walked_ _ **through**_ the door...

“ _Lowell?_ ”

“Madam Manchester,” the butler begins, “I have no notion—”

“I don’t _pay_ you to have notions. Help me upstairs then smarten yourself up!” Lowell demands of the butler, ignoring the woman hovering uncertainly in the hall. Tam stares at this much younger version of Aunt Margaret. He stares and he thinks, maybe Uncle Hamish really _did_ fight Lowell for her heart...

Win charges up the stairs after his father and the butler who is assisting him. Tam, unwilling to be left behind in this Mirror Past (even if he is the master of it!), scrambles after them.

Just like with the carriage, his Intent is enough to keep his feet from sinking through the steps and then down through the second floor rugs and back onto the first floor parquet. He follows his cousin at a brief distance, feeling somehow shy at this moment.

The butler settles Lowell Manchester on his bed and then hurries from the room when his employer bellows, “ _If you_ ’ _ve finished gawking and gathering up gossip, GET OUT!_ ”

Tam flinches, glad that this man isn’t _his_ Fa and Very Sorry that he is Win’s. Tam moves to stand next to his cousin in the room but doesn’t say anything. Lowell removes his boots and jacket and waistcoat, wincing very dramatically with each motion.

“I wish we could do something to help,” Tam mumbles awkwardly, seeing the red blood – just like his Mam’s – seeping through the man’s white shirt and staining the bed sheets beneath his sliced thigh. “We could try to touch him, I guess...” His stomach rolls at the thought. Tam does not want to be anywhere _near_ this man.

“I don’t want to touch him,” Win answers in a hushed and strained whisper. Tam glances at him and watches as his cousin’s fingers curl in on themselves until Win’s hands are fully fisted and his skin stretches white over his knuckles. “I don’t think I like him very much...”

Tam probably would have thought of something to say – although maybe it wouldn’t have been all that wise or funny... it’s hard for him to imagine a saying that would sound nice or a joke that would be funny Right Now – if the door hadn’t opened behind them and Aunt Margaret hadn’t swept into the room with a pitcher of steaming water and a pile of linens over her arm.

“What _happened_ to you?” she asks her husband as she sets the stack of fabric down on the bureau and goes to collect a very old-looking porcelain water basin.

“Nothing, Margaret.”

Surprisingly, Tam’s normally Muchy aunt doesn’t argue. He’s heard her get after Uncle Hamish often enough to know that her silence is very strange, indeed. Win scowls, obviously agreeing. Aunt Margaret _never_ accepts “Nothing” as an adequate response... to _anything._

She sets the basin down on the nearby sideboard and pours some of the steaming water into it. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’ve been out dueling, Lowell Manchester,” Aunt Margaret remarks in a tight tone. She reaches over to pick up the first square of linen but a hand darts out and wraps itself around her wrist.

Tam and Win watch, frozen with horror, as the man _pulls_ her to the bedside. She tries to twist away, to free herself, and then, gasping, begins clawing at the hand that looks far too big, far too strong, far too tight around her slender arm.

“You’re... you’re hurting me...” she protests with frightening hesitancy.

“Good,” he replies, shackling both her wrists in his hands. “Good, you despicable harlot. It’s _meant_ to hurt!” His fingers wrap even tighter around her arms.

“Ah... Ah-ha!! _Please stop, Lowell!_ ”

“Why should I? Will you? You’ve been spreading favors behind my back, _Maggie?_ ”

“Ow... Lowell! _Please!_ ”

“Please, _what?_ ” he demands, a sharp-toothed, humorless grin stretching his mouth. “Please forgive you? Please don’t punish you? You deserve it, you know.”

“ _PLEASE STOP!_ ” she shouts and with a growl and a sneer, he shoves her away from him. She steps backward, trips over his discarded boots, steps on the hem of her skirt and crashes against the wall. The sound is a sickening smash that makes Tam want to heave right there in full view of... well, the only person in the world he would rather _die_ than be violently ill in front of.

Lowell laughs as Margaret pushes herself up off of the wall and probes her jaw and cheek gingerly with her fingertips.

“Have I broken anything?” he asks with amusement.

“Only my illusions,” she replies. She does not look at him as she gathers herself and makes her unsteady way toward the door. “I’ll call the doctor. Clearly, you are not well, _sir_.”

When she leaves, Tam and Win go with her. They don’t even have to confer on this; neither of them wishes to stay in the presence of that... that...

“I don’t like your father very much, Winslow,” Tam whispers.

“I don’t either,” his cousin replies after a moment. “And my name is Win.”

Tam nods. “Sorry.”

Win sighs and stops at the bottom of the stairs. Aunt Margaret orders the butler to go and fetch the doctor immediately and, once the front door closes, her stiff posture melts and she dashes for the first floor water closet. Through the door, they can hear the sounds of her sobs and retching. Win takes off and dashes into the library. Tam watches as he struggles with the door, trying to close it, trying to shut out all the awfulness in this house, but his hands slip and slither through it.

He finally gives up and presses his hands to his ears. “I want to go back,” he declares, glaring at Tam. “Right now.”

“Go back?” he parrots stupidly. _Go back?!_ Tam isn’t even sure how they’d managed to _Get Here_ in the first place! “Uhm...”

“You don’t know how,” Win finishes for him, sneering. “Bloody fantastic, Hightopp. _Brilliant._ Now we’re stuck here! For how long? Do you even know _that?_ ”

“No, I don’t,” he shouts, his frustration boiling over. “And don’t blame _me_ for this! _You_ wanted to know the truth! _You_ don’t get to put it all on me just because you don’t like it!”

Tam rushes from the room in silence. He pounds down the hall without a single percussive step. It’s very unsatisfying, he decides, to stomp and blunder so very quietly. He races over to the window and glares at what he can see of the world outside through the weave of the draperies. He reaches for the curtain, absently trying to push it aside before he remembers that he can’t. He can’t touch or be touched by anything Here. He can’t be heard, either. Still, there is an advantage to being so quiet; he can hear everything else in the house. There’s a bit of clanking occurring in the kitchen and a floorboard squeaks above his head at one point. None of these noises alert him to Win’s return, though.

“Sorry,” he says. “For shouting.”

“It’s all right,” Tam replies turning from the lace-curtained window and the view of the backyard garden. “It’s... fine.”

“So... how are we getting home?” he asks after a minute.

Tam sighs. “I’m still not sure. But let’s try.”

And they do. They find the nearest full-size mirror and Tam struggles to copy his actions from earlier.

“Take us back to Uncle Hamish’s house in London!”

“Take us home!”

“Open up, you bloody-minded looking glass!”

“Please?”

Nothing.

Night approaches and, oddly enough, despite the meals that have come and gone, Tam doesn’t feel the least bit hungry. “Do you think we’re ghosts?” Tam asks off-handedly as he lounges on the sofa with his booted feet up on the low table opposite.

“Or figments?”

“Yeah, maybe this is a dream.”

“That would mean we just have to wake up.”

But neither of them can think of how to do that.

The sun has sunk down behind the line of houses across the street from the front parlor – which they had decided to inspect to pass the time – when a carriage pulls up out front and a black-cloaked man in a very fine top hat steps out. He ascends the steps slowly and with the aid of his cane, his back rigid with pride. Once again, the butler attends to the door.

“Lord Manchester! May I take you coat and hat, sir?”

“I won’t be staying long.”

Tam joins Win at the door and they watch as an older gentleman relinquishes his hat and walking stick to the butler’s care.

“Make yourself comfortable, sir. I shall let Lady Manchester know you are here.”

“No need. I’m here to see my son. Where is he?”

“Upstairs in his chambers, resting, sir.”

Tam exchanges a look with Win. Again, they do not need to say anything to decide their next course of action. They follow.

They have to run up the stairs to keep up with the older man’s brisk pace. And Tam feels his brows climb up his forehead when the man simply barrels into his son’s room without knocking.

“You have humiliated this family for the last time!” the elder Lord Manchester announces in a mockery of greeting as he slams the door shut. Tam and Win press their way through the door and watch as Lowell attempts to rise from the bed. His face is pale and sweaty and his eyes blurry.

“Father, I...”

“Am a waste of Manchester flesh! Gaming debts. Women. Brothels. Drinking in the middle of the day! And now _this! Dueling!_ ” The man glares down at his son.

Lowell blinks, confounded. “How did you know about...? Ah. Bloody Roberts.” He snorts. “I see my driver has found _additional_ gainful employment with _you._ ”

“An expenditure that would never have been necessary if you weren’t so obviously in need of nannying!” the elder Manchester retorts. “Do you know how much your exploits have cost this family?”

The mention of money seems to jar Lowell and he hastily rasps, “I just need a little more – just a small advance on next year’s salary – and everything will be fine, sir. Just—”

“It is never _just_ a small advance, is it Lowell? Let’s call a spade, a spade.” He stares at his son who has finally managed to sit up and is slumped on the edge of the bed. The effort has cost him; he can barely keep his head up. The man doesn’t protest his father’s next words, “You are useless to me. Utterly useless. No, I should like to amend that. You are an utter _loss_ , Lowell Manchester. You have cost me time, money, and pride. I’ll not permit you to _destroy_ the Manchester name as well.”

“So you would have me be thrown in gaol?” Lowell asks weakly.

“Are you deaf, boy? _No_ , I won’t let you _ruin this family and disgrace our reputation by going to_ _ **gaol!**_ ”

“Then what...?”

“You will go abroad. To the Americas.”

“The Americas?” Lowell chokes, raising his head finally. “What am I to do _there?_ ”

“Do whatever you feel compelled to do,” Lowell’s father replies. “ _My_ preferences have never held much weight _here;_ I don’t expect you to honor them anywhere else!”

“I’m sor—”

“Yes, you are. A sorry excuse for a son. I wash my hands of you.” Lord Manchester turns on his heel and storms toward the door. Tam and Win reflexively dive out of his way. “I will make the arrangements and be back later this week with the details of your travel itinerary. In the meantime, I suggest you make your preparations.”

He pauses at the door and turns to inform his badly shaken, pale and trembling son. “I believe one of Ascots’ ships is setting sail this following weekend and you _will_ be on it.”

“Heading for America...” Lowell mutters, shuddering with distaste.

“Yes.” And with that, Lord Manchester opens the door and makes his displeasure _felt_ in his abrupt exit. He stomps down the hall toward the stairs and Tam stares after him, Win by his side.

“America,” the older man mutters to himself with grim determination. “But I’ll be damned if you ever have the chance to set foot on it!”

Tam gasps, turns toward his cousin, reaches out and grasps Win’s shoulder, opens his mouth...

… and then the wind currents that had sucked them both into the Looking Glass Past swallow them up and spit them back out... onto the rug in Tam’s room in Uncle Hamish and Aunt Margaret’s house.

For a moment, he stares up at the ceiling, which looks exactly the same as it had when they’d left; the gloaming not-quite-light of the gray day is still reflecting across the plaster and – there! – across the room the window is still displaying the same rainy scene that it had earlier...

“We’re back!” Tam announces. _Grins._

He turns toward Win and finds his cousin lying beside him with his hands covering his face.

“Win...? What is it?” But then, just as he asks, Lord Manchester’s parting remark catches up to him:

 _“Yes... America... but I_ ’ _ll be damned if you ever have the chance to set foot on it!”_

He swallows, turns toward the mirror, remembers his own desperate command to the looking glass, and   
_gapes:_

  
_“Show us the duel... Show us who killed Lowell Manchester...”_

The mirror had done precisely that. It had transported them to the duel and it had kept them there until the murderer had revealed himself. And – if the Looking Glass Past is to be believed (and Tam fears it _can_ be trusted to show the Truth... for what else _would_ it show?) – the man who had killed Lowell Manchester is Lord Abbercombe Manchester.

Win’s own grandfather.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In OPK Book 3, Chapter 18: In Her Name, the time line is described thusly: the duel happens; Lowell comes down with a fever; he manhandles Margaret (yes, she did fib a bit – here we see he hadn’t come down with that fever yet when he’d hurt his wife); and then a week after the duel Lowell’s father shows up to help him pack for his trip, informing Margaret that Lowell will be going abroad for an indefinite period of time and requesting that Winslow take Lowell’s place with the company when he is of age. The day after this, Margaret goes to visit her mother and sister (and reveals her not-yet-healed bruises). The next weekend, Lowell is on the ship bound for the Americas.
> 
>  
> 
> Here we see that Lord Manchester actually paid his son a visit the evening after the duel and had already made up his mind about what had to be done. Margaret is actually the “last to know” the details. (It’s often the case that the wife is the last to know, isn’t it? Or, it seems that way...) So Margaret thinks Lord Manchester came over that first day to quickly check on his son (she has no idea he was actually there to be his son’s judge, jury, and executioner). As she assumed this was merely a social call, she does not mention it to her family in OPK Book 3.
> 
>  
> 
> As for why Lowell’s father would have wanted him dead, well, I mentioned in OPK Book 3, Chapter Sixteen: Progress and Productivity that Lowell’s father had been a very distant parent. Also, he is very dedicated to developing and expanding the family business, something that won’t happen if your reputation becomes a joke in London. So, the man had motive for getting rid of his bothersome and humiliating son (especially now that he has a grandson – Winslow – to “carry on” the family name and take over the business one day). As a wealthy businessman, he also had the means to hire someone to do his dirty work for him. We still don’t know how Lowell died, but we know who was behind it and that it was not a timely accident.
> 
>  
> 
> 2\. What would have happened to Tam and Win if they had not chosen to follow Lowell? Well, actually, they wouldn’t have been able to: the magic would not have allowed them to grab onto Hamish’s coach or stay with Lowell’s in order to follow Blakefield. I know it seems as if the boys had a choice in the matter... but, actually, they didn’t.


	10. Unthinkable, Unspeakable

 

The hardest part about being a mother is also being a queen.

Mirana stands on the balcony that has suffered through dozens of crashing tea tables and regards the setting sun, her eyes looking Queast-ward, but unfocused. She does not see the sunset. She does not see the ridge of the mountains that ring Mamoreal as they are silhouetted in the rosy light. She is, actually, trying very hard to see Nothing at all. To think of Nothing. Thinking and seeing are not pleasant pastimes when one is Waiting.

Mirana has never had any particular aversion to Waiting. As a queen, she knows that many things take time and waiting is often the wisest course of action.

But as a mother... and under _these_ circumstances... Waiting is a torture she can _not_ bear!

She had never explicitly said so aloud, but even prior to this... turn of events, she had been waiting. Although, at the time, she had not known what it was she’d been waiting _for._ Tarra’s departure had too closely mirrored Alice’s on the dawn of the Trial of Threes for her to _not_ feel apprehensive, for her to _not_ imagine the unwanted attention of the Fates, for her to _not_ wonder if perhaps that tingle of dread had been a warning: _Something is coming..._

And it has. The fear now has words to define it: Tarra has disappeared, been taken by rebels, is somewhere between Crimson Harbor and Gummer Slough in one of the tunnels that had once funneled death and decay away from Iracebeth’s castle.

There had been nothing positive in Bayto’s report. Nothing concrete she could console Tarra’s sisters and brothers with. Nothing except the promise that Alice has gone after her and both Mirana and the Queen’s Champion will do everything they can to bring Tarra home. And yet, for a fleeting moment – when she had first heard the news – Mirana had experienced an inexplicable moment of relief, as when the thorn finally breaks the skin after tormenting one with the possibility of deeper pain and injury for so long. Had it been odd – _wrong?_ – to taste the flavor of relief in the back of her throat? Perhaps. She certainly feels guilty enough over it now... now that the Unknown has become...

Unthinkable.

Unspeakable.

  
_Tarra!_

The night wind arrives with a gentle, cool puff of a sigh. Mirana does not shiver until the weight of her husband’s warm long-fingered paws settle on her shoulders. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized she was cold.

For a minute – maybe more – neither speaks. But, of course, the questions – the _doubts_ – are never silent.

“Have I made the Right Choice?” she hears herself whisper. How long has it been since she’d last used her voice? _No, no!_ She does not want to revisit that memory. And yet the question she has just asked is inexorably tied to it. She sighs. She does not want to face herself right now... and yet there is no one else _to_ face. Were she to look into her husband’s eyes, she would only see a reflection of herself, her own doubt, her own fear, her own imperfections.

His fingers stir, massaging her taut shoulders. She does not relax one whit but they both take comfort in the gesture. “I can only say what I’ve already said, Mish’rya,” he murmurs, his voice sounding equally as rough as her own.

“Then say it again. Please.”

He does:

“We must consider our people. They trust you and that is a gift too precious to break.”

She nods: She must not break her Vows _or_ their Trust.

“But we cannot abandon our daughter to the mercies of the rebels. We would never forgive ourselves.”

She blinks several times in order to see past the hot and stinging watery veil.

Yes: if she allows harm to come to her daughter... if she does not act when Tarra _needs_ her...

“We have responsibilities to protect our people, even from themselves.”

Mirana bites her lip. Her fingers curl tighter around her upper arms. For once, she fears that releasing them into the air to dance with the breeze will send her spinning out of control, into madness. Perhaps this was what had driven her sister to such extremes. Perhaps a moment very much like this had shattered her spirit and torn her mind apart. Were she faced with these rebels who have taken her daughter, would she hear herself shout:   
_Off with their heads!_

Dale continues, “We can trust Sir Fenruffle to carry out your orders. No one will be harmed. The army will use its numbers to force the rebels to surrender and they _will bring Tarra home._ ”

Mirana does not ask if even that much will damage the White Realm beyond repair. What will her people think, believe, fear when they see her army descend upon the orchards surrounding Crimson Harbor? Will they think the worst has happened: the White Queen has turned... Red? Will they trust her explanation? Will they rise against her, hurt each other, endanger her children?

But if she had chosen to do nothing... How could the citizens of the White Realm respect a queen who – when her own daughter is in peril – does less than _everything in her power to save her?_ How could she trust _herself_ to be the ruler they expect her to be? To leave Tarra there, to weigh her life cruelly and impartially against those of her citizens, would damage her soul irreparably.

The Decree is no easier to contemplate now than it had been when she had given it hours ago.

  
_“The army is ready, Your Majesty. What are your orders?”_

_“My orders... Yes. Yes, it_ ’ _s time. Sir Fenruffle, march to Crimson Harbor. The army may defend itself and detain the rebels but there will be_ _ **no**_ _causalities, sir._ _ **No**_ _injuries._ _ **No**_ _weapons used with the intent to cause pain or death._ _ **I Forbid it**_ _.”_

She had tried to define and keep to the line between being a Mother and Queen. She had _thought_ she had identified it, had stayed true to both her selves.

Now, as she waits, Doubt fills the empty space beside her where her Champion _should_ be standing

Mirana lifts a hand and covers her husband’s where it still grips her shoulder. (Is he trying to hold her together or anchor himself? Perhaps both...) She aches to ask her Champion, her _friend_ , what she ought to have done. Warfare – even one without deadly weapons – is not something Mirana has ever contemplated. Not even when her sister had begun her brutal campaign for dominion over all of Underland. (Although, yes, she _had_ been rather too willing to sacrifice Alice for the sake of All, but Alice hadn’t been a member of Underland at the time and, somehow, it had seemed easier for Mirana to pit her own “monster” – a being from Up There – against her sister’s Jabberwocky. Now, she sees how unforgivable that had truly been. And she still has not repented properly for it!) And even when Mirana had issued the Champions’ Challenge to Jaspien and his co-conspirators, she had done so at Alice’s behest. She had trusted her Champion’s plan, her judgment, her foresight. She has none of those things to guide her now.

She draws in yet another deep breath. The Mother within her struggles against the White Queen, the Woman who has Taken Vows... She wishes Dale could be the one to help her, shore her up, to justify her actions, to shoulder the responsibility of it all. When she had asked, he had advised her to the best of his ability, despite being as deeply biased on the matter as she is herself:

  
_“If we attack in earnest, more lives other than our Tarra’s may be lost...”_

He had not meant it as a deterrent, but as an observation. She had watched as he’d struggled to sound – to _be! –_ impartial, to be a king first and a father second. Though his expression had twisted with pain and panic, he had restricted himself to stating an observation; Mirana, however, had taken it as a warning. She had dared to press him, to test the strength of his objectivity:

 _“And if her life is lost because we do_ _ **not**_ _attack... because we rely on only the strength of the army_ ’ _s numbers?”_

Dale had done his best to reassure them both: Alice is with her; Leif is with her. Either of them would sacrifice their lives for Tarra. Tarrant’s ingenuity and Alice’s genius will prevail. Irondirk had proven himself years ago, when they had asked him to hunt down all traces of Valereth and Oshtyer, to be a loyal and resourceful servant to the Crown. He will make a positive contribution to Alice and Leif’s mission...

On her shoulders, Dale’s long-fingered, amber-furred paws stir, remind her that she is not alone. It helps... and yet it doesn’t: for a moment she does not _feel_ alone, but she _is._ She is the queen. This – the assault – had been _her_ decision and it could _only_ have been _her_ decision. Right or wrong, she’d _had to_ decide. She had not asked – _forced!_ – her husband to shoulder this burden. It would have been unforgivable had she put this weight upon his shoulders; she will not permit herself to blame him later should her decision turn out to be the Wrong One. She knows what the consequences of the Wrong Decision may be, but that does not help her identify the Right One. Even now after it has been made and implemented and it is too late to turn back.

“We will know soon,” Dale says, more to himself than to her. Mirana doesn’t mind; she is not the only one who is allowed comfort here. Although, honestly, she knows she ought to be making a better effort on his behalf. “Very soon.”

“Very _right_ _ **now**_ , if you wish, Your Majesties.”

Mirana feels her own eyes widen at the sound of _that_ voice. Gasping, she turns, transferring her grip so that she now clutches one of Dale’s wrists in both of her hands. She looks around him toward the center of her office and there the Cheshire Cat appears on wisps of swirling teal smoke, grinning. As always.

“Chessur!”

“Yes, as always, excellent observation skills, Your Majesty.”

“Have you seen Tarra?” Dale asks before Mirana can.

“Yes, earlier this morning. At the time she was quite safe and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. She appeared to have those.. _rebels_ rather neatly in hand.”

Mirana lets out a sigh of relief... until the memory of Sir Fenruffle’s proposal and her Decree return to her.

“I _do_ hope this means you’ve already pardoned me for not announcing myself at the door but I thought you might like to hear that as soon as possible. In addition, Alice sends a rather urgent message. Although...” he drawls with a slightly worried squint, “I couldn’t help but notice the lack of... army. Perhaps Alice’s concerns were quite valid after all.”

“Her concerns?” Dread returns, beats against her skull and pounds on her breastbone.

Chessur fidgets. “Don’t tell me you’ve acquiesced to any feather-brained, pompous propositions recently... Have you?”

The White Queen draws herself up to her tallest, straightest, most regal bearing. “Perhaps I have. I shall have to hope Alice and I are of one mind on the matter of feather-brained, pompous endeavors.”

Chessur grins sheepishly. He offers no apology for offending her, nor does she expect one from a Cat. “Then I’ll just get on with the message, shall I?”

“Thank you. Although,” she muses, “I suspect there is quite a bit more than that you could tell us.”

“Indeed I could, and indeed I shall. However, I suspect that will take _several_ teatimes.”

She arches a brow at him. “Is that your very tactful way of requesting a tea service?”

“Well... I _have_ traveled rather far today. Tea _would_ be _most_ appreciated.”

The queen strides back into her office from the balcony and tugs on the Calling Cord.

Seeing this, Chessur is immediately and quantitatively more agreeable. “First and foremost, I think I had better start with Alice’s urgent requests.”

She nods.

“If you would, please have a carriage for three sent to Causwick Callion, along with a dozen from your guard and some basic injury remedies.”

“Causwick... Callion...?” In her shock, she drops the mask of the queen and stares.

“Yes. Interesting development, isn’t it?” the cat remarks. “But I wouldn’t worry that history is repeating; Alice and Tarrant are not _alone,_ per se, in Jaspien’s Castle. The staff there seem to think very fondly of her and, as I happened to cross paths with the Bandersnatch on my way _here_ , I was able to point him in the right direction; he is galumphing into that dreadful swamp even as I speak. However, I doubt he’ll agree to bear a third person when Jaspien insists on accompanying your former Champion and Royal Hatter back here. And then there’s the matter of his luggage. It would appear that the Prince of the Callion is a man of considerable baggage, Your Majesty.”

Mirana goggles at him for a very long moment. “Yes, I see,” she finally manages. “This _will_ require several teatimes.”

The Cat grins wider. “Well, _I_ certainly won’t complain and, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, I do believe you might also benefit from multiple servings yourself.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Chessur,” she replies, moving toward the tea table just as a knock sounds on the door. Tea is ordered and Alice’s requests addressed and when the three of them are alone again she reaches out a hand to her husband. No, they are not perfect monarchs – their hands, clasped on the tabletop, attest to the continued fear and apprehension that they feel as Parents – but they are in Control again. Alice has sent the singularly most important thing a monarch who is facing a rebellion could ask for: reliable information.

But before Chessur can divulge the wealth of knowledge he has gathered, a rather doggy sort of knock sounds on the office door.

Biting back a growl of frustration, Mirana calls out, “Enter!”

Warily, Bayne does. “I beg—your pardon for—interrupting—Your Majesties—but Sir—Fenruffle—ordered me to—deliver this—as quickly—as possible.”

She holds out her hand for the scroll tied onto the underside of his collar. He makes a valiant effort to hold still despite his heaving sides and turns his face away so that the foam and drool on his jowls do not smear her skin or the sleeves of her dress. She has half a thought to thank him for his presence of mind, but then the scroll is unrolling and its contents shouting at her in silent black ink and...

“No,” Dale rumbles. “This is not possible!”

Mirana stares at the Champions’ Challenge in her hands. She gapes at the perfectly worded issuance of Intent to Do Battle and the signature beneath it.

She does not even reprimand Chessur when he evaporates and then brazenly hovers over her shoulder.

“Ah, yes. I _was_ getting to that.” He sends an irritated glance at Bayne, who puffs his chest up as much as his panting breaths allow. “Tarra appears to be cooperating with the rebels. If I’m not mistaken, it was she who assisted them with the drafting of this Challenge.”

“But... no. No, your ears must have fooled you, Chessur,” she somehow manages to say. “Tarra is the child of a Soul Bond. How could she... How would that even be possible?”

Chessur does not reply.

Bayne’s only contribution is his continued winded breathing.

Dale curls his arm around her shoulders.

The wordless silence is heavy enough to crush oyster shells.

 _This_ is why she should not ask questions to which she already knows the horrifying answers. But no. _No!_ Mirana will not consider these blasphemous thoughts _now._ Not now!

Mirana shakes her head, refusing what she hears, what she thinks, what she suspects.

“She stood against Alice. Resisted rescue,” Chessur continues in tone meant to be merciful. “And both Leif and Irondirk are their prisoners.”

“Alice...?”

“Yes, if what Mallymkun told me is true, Tarra fought Alice when she dared to attempt a rescue. Tarrant was badly injured – in the melee, I believe; although, I confess, I never really confirmed the details of when and how it had happened. Still... They were forced to retreat. I found them at Causwick Castle, where Alice no doubt traded a guarantee of safe passage to Mamoreal for succor.”

Dale growls. Mirana rubs his arm. Yes, she knows that promise was not Alice’s to make – that favor was not hers to give – but Mirana would rather allow her that latitude than contemplate any harm coming to her Champion or her Hatter.

“Have you heard _why_ Prince Jaspien wishes to visit Mamoreal?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Mirana drops her gaze to the parchment – already wrinkled – in her grasp. She stares at her daughter’s handwriting, at her signature which promises her life for the cause that these rebels have rallied themselves around.

  
_No! This was not supposed to happen!_

And yet it has.

Mirana realizes then, as she stares at the Declaration of Intent to Do Battle, that she would never have truly believed Chessur and his tale of her daughter’s apparent participation in all of this. She would not have wanted to believe it. The very idea that Tarra would – _could!_ – move against her own mother, against her own family, against the White Crown is inconceivable.

But not impossible.

Tarra had never taken her Vows.

And if the Soul Bond is permitting her daughter to do this, to even _think_ it, then there _must_ be some merit to what these rebels fight for... Otherwise, how _could_ Tarra have signed her own name here, on _this_ document? Otherwise, how _could_ the moral compass that the Soul Bond provides for their children permit this?

Otherwise, how could Princess Tarranya of Mamoreal become the Champion of the New Resistance?

 _Or_ , a small, very Dark part of her mind whispers, _if the Soul Bond and the moral compass that it provides has... broken..._

No. No, no, no. _That_ thought is far worse than considering the possibility that Mirana is in the Wrong and these rebels fight for a Just Cause. _That_ thought is far too terrifying to contemplate.

She draws a deep breath and glances at Bayne. He has gotten control of his breathing finally and is waiting for her response. _Sir Fenruffle_ is waiting for her response.

But the White Queen _has_ no response to this. Despite the warmth of her husband’s arm against her shoulders, Mirana is utterly alone.

_I need my Champion!_

“Chessur,” Mirana asks shakily. “Does Alice have a plan?”

“Well, she did not say as much to me, but...”

“But?” she prompts.

Chessur sighs fondly. “But, my dear queen, when _doesn_ ’ _t_ she?”

And because that is absolutely true, Mirana manages to collect herself. Tarra is fine. An assault is not necessary. Alice will be here soon. Everything is under control.

“Yes,” she replies, speaking with confidence for what feels like the first time since Master Setteeson had arrived so many days ago. She pats Dale’s hand and concurs, “Yes, you are quite right, Chessur. When doesn’t she?”

It is not a question.

It is a guarantee.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Thanks to a bit of luck, a spark of intuition, and an obliging looking glass, Lowell Manchester’s killer had been revealed.

However...

Tamial Hightopp of Iplam, Magician of Mirrors, does not know _what to do about it!_

“Win?” he whispers following a very uncomfortable dinner with his aunt, uncle, and cousins during which Winslow had been very, very surly.

His cousin continues stomping up the stairs, not pausing, slowing _or_ looking back over his shoulder. “What?”

Tam hesitates, oddly anxious in his friend’s presence as he never has been before. Perhaps it’s because he’d most recently heard that tone of voice from Lowell Manchester. He shakes his head, trying to knock the memory out of his skull. “Shall I come up with you?”

“No. I want to be alone.”

Stunned, Tam stands on the step midway up the stairs and listens to his cousin storm down the second floor hallway. He flinches when a door slams shut, echoing throughout the house.

“I don’t know what you did,” a bossy tone informs him, “but you’d better do something about it.”

He turns and regards Laney who is glaring at him with her fists on her hips. “Like what?” he dares her to answer, irritated by the command.

“Apologize,” she suggests.

“This isn’t _my_ fault!” In fact, Tam would argue that if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Win’s! _He’s_ the one who wanted to see the duel for himself! _He_ ’ _s_ the one who wanted to know who really killed Lowell Manchester!

“Then tell my father about it and let him sort it out. He’s good at that sort of thing, you know.”

Tam doesn’t, actually – he’s never spoken much with his Uncle Hamish – but he nods as he rolls that thought over in his mind. Looking somewhat satisfied, Laney brushes past him and heads upstairs.

He lingers on the steps and thinks. Ever since they’d come back through the mirror, Win has been... well, _angry._ Tam had tried to talk to him, had asked him what he wanted to do now... Furious silence had been his cousin’s only response.

Tam doesn’t like this. Winslow always has an answer for everything!

Not for the first time, Tam regrets ever opening the looking glass, ever stepping into the past, ever _finding out_ what sort of man Lowell Manchester had been and the sort of man Win’s grandfather _is._

_He killed his own son!_

Tam can’t comprehend it. He just... _can_ ’ _t._

 _Maybe that_ ’ _s what_ ’ _s making Win so angry – he doesn_ ’ _t understand it either..._

He sighs. He hates admitting that he needs help. He _really_ does. But, as his Fa sometimes says, “Others may not be able to help you _think_ , but they _can_ help you See.”

Mind made up, Tam turns around and heads back down the stairs to the drawing room. He’s still trying to think of how to explain the situation without incriminating himself or Win when Aunt Margaret’s voice floats down the hall to him.

“... could be wrong with Winslow? I’ve never seen him so...”

“Yes,” Uncle Hamish agrees gravely. “He looked...”

“He looked just like a younger version of Lowell tonight,” she replies, her voice muffled.

Tam creeps forward and peers around the door jamb. There, in the center of the room, Uncle Hamish stands with his arms around Aunt Margaret as she presses her face into his shoulder. Instantly feeling uncomfortable at having seen them look so... sad and... weak, Tam pulls back into the hall to spend a few more moments with his thoughts.

Win _had_ looked like his father tonight. Had looked more like him tonight than he had _last_ night at diner. Surely, that must be a Bad Thing. Especially since Tam has _seen_ exactly what kind of man Lowell Manchester had been.

And then another thought occurs to him: what will Uncle Hamish do if Win _doesn_ ’ _t_ go back to normal soon? Will his uncle... will he be just like Lord Manchester and...?!

And then it is as if the Fates – which he’s sure ought to lurking in Underland and not sticking their noses in other people’s business Up Here! – had heard his fearful thoughts:

Uncle Hamish decrees, “If he continues to behave like this, we’ll set him to rights.”

“But perhaps he...”

“No! I’ll not allow you to say it, darling. We’ll do what’s necessary to _ensure_ he does not turn into that _rotter!_ ”

Tam gasps. Could he mean...?! Is he going to...?!

The thought is incomplete – unthinkable! – but his panic is fully formed.

“No! _Don_ ’ _t!_ ” Tam hears himself shout as he barges into the room, startling his aunt and uncle. They step apart but Tam doesn’t pause to apologize for scaring them. This is Too Important! “Please don’t blame Winslow! This is my fault!”

“Your fault, dear?” Margaret asks. “Why would you say that?”

“Er...” Oh, blundering Bandersnatches! _Now what, genius?_ “Um, just _please_ don’t... don’t hurt Win fer actin’ like ’is Fa.” Tam winces as his words trip off his tongue in brogue. He sighs; perhaps there are times when acting like your father is just natural.

“Tamial, we would never _hurt_ Winslow,” his aunt insists. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Tam glances behind him at the open door. Suddenly his rush to stand in as Win’s Champion doesn’t seem like such a great idea. The safety of the hallway and the nearest looking glass of adequate size beckons...

“Tamial,” Uncle Hamish says sternly. “Close the door and have a seat, young man.”

His heart pounds in his chest as he complies. He tries not to think of nails and coffins.

Tam trudges over to the seat Uncle Hamish points to and sits himself in it. He clasps his hands in his lap, hating the gesture even as he does it – _I’m supposed to be too old to feel this ashamed of myself!_ – but he can’t help it with Uncle Hamish’s stern, blue gaze focused on him. He wonders if Uncle Hamish really could... _hurt_ Win for acting like... his father. _His_ _ **dead**_ _father._ Tam shivers.

“Talk to me, dear,” Aunt Margaret says. “What has happened to upset Winslow? Did you two get into an argument.”

“Er... no. Not... no.”

She waits. He fidgets. It’s hard to resist Aunt Margaret’s _Look_ but it’s possible. When Uncle Hamish clears his throat, Tam reflexively glances up at him and quells beneath the force of the man’s frown.

Tam closes his eyes briefly and sighs. There’s no hope for it; he’ll get in Big Trouble for this. So will Winslow. In fact, his cousin may never forgive him. Still, Tam takes comfort in the sudden memory of his Mam and Fa. They would want him to tell the truth. They would want him to help Win. Even if it means getting himself into Serious Trouble.

“Win and I... we heard you fought Lowell Manchester in a duel a long time ago, Uncle Hamish,” Tamial admits, carefully editing the events to spare Win as much as he can. “And I... I opened a looking glass and... I asked it to show us the duel... and it did.”

“I... beg your pardon?” his uncle rasps.

Oh, yes: when they figure out just what he’d done, it’s going to be Bad. Epically _Bad_. But there’s no turning back now. “I opened a looking glass to the past, sir.”

For a minute, Tam wonders if he’d merely _imagined_ saying that and hadn’t actually said anything at all. But, if that were the case, wouldn’t Uncle Hamish and Aunt Margaret be demanding he say something right about now? They aren’t. In fact, they don’t even seem to notice that no one is talking _at all._

Somehow, the silence is Not Comforting.

“Er...” he says.

“The past?” his aunt murmurs. “Tamial, that’s not possible.”

“I didn’t think it would be, either. But I asked the mirror to show us the duel, and it did.”

“You... you _saw...?_ ” Aunt Margaret asks as Uncle Hamish is clearly too stunned to do so.

“The duel? Absolutely.” He glances hesitantly at his uncle. “You were really good with a sword.” The thought of Uncle Hamish fighting reminds him of something else: “Why did you ask my Fa to stand with you? Did you really fight Lowell Manchester for Aunt Margaret?”

The man chokes.

“Fight Lowell for... _me?_ ” his aunt gasps. “I... Where did you hear _that?_ ”

 _Oh, blast!_ “Um... well... We heard, well, that is, _I_ heard a rumor that Uncle Hamish wanted to marry you when you were still married to Lord Manchester and that’s why they fought.” _Yes,_ Tam decides, _it_ ’ _s_ _ **much**_ _easier talking to Aunt Margaret about this._

Uncle Hamish is still gaping at him, his complexion reddening, when Aunt Margaret reaches out and pats Tam’s hands. “No, dear. Your Uncle Hamish tried to help Lowell but he... misunderstood and took offense.”

Tam scowls, trying to comprehend that. “How can someone get angry when you try to help them?” But even as the words leave his mouth, he thinks of Win.

“It’s... complicated,” she admits. “And not very relevant at the moment. Where did you hear such a rumor?”

Tam finds himself fidgeting again; this conversation is _not_ going very well _at all!_ “A man told us.” He digs though his memory for the name of the man who had gone to the duel with Lowell, who had pulled out a gun and then had thrown his Fa’s knife at Uncle Hamish and hit Lowell instead. For the first time, Tamial spends a moment thinking about that man and decides he probably shouldn’t be trusted.

“Mister Blakefield,” he says without further prompting.

“That _rotter!_ ” his uncle growls, turning away and pacing furiously.

Tam and Aunt Margaret watch him for a moment. “Um... Uncle Hamish knows Mister Blakefield?” Tam whispers to his aunt.

“Yes,” she answers. “They are very old... acquaintances.”

“Hah!” his uncle barks, startling Tam. “ _Acquaintances_ don’t try to turn their associate’s own son against them!”

“I can see why Win is so upset,” Aunt Margaret muses, “but, please, Hamish, let’s not lose our heads over that man. We’ll deal with him later.”

“I’ll lose my head if I bloody _want to!_ ” Uncle Hamish rages.

Amazingly, Aunt Margaret stands and moves toward him. Tam leaps out of his chair and grasps her elbow. “No!” He steps between them, remembering how Lowell had grabbed her, had sneered at her, had hurt her. Uncle Hamish is _easily_ as angry as Lowell had been but Tam does not have to simply stand by and _watch_ his aunt be hurt _this time!_

“Tamial?” Aunt Margaret says, laying a hand on his shoulder. Only then does he realize his fists are clenched and the room is utterly silent. Even his uncle had stopped his furious pacing and angry shouts.

“I... I’m sorry,” Tam says, unsure of what else he _ought_ to say.

“Did you believe,” Uncle Hamish asks in a shocked tone, “that I would hurt your aunt just now?”

“Well... you were really angry,” Tam admits awkwardly.

“And have you seen people hurt each other when they are angry?” Aunt Margaret asks.

Tam sighs, nods, and figures he might as well tell them everything. At this point, he’s too tired and confused to keep secrets anymore. “We – Win and I – when we went through the looking glass, we followed Lowell Manchester home and we saw...” He looks up at his aunt then glances away, uncomfortable with the memory. “We saw you try to help him but he... he was so angry and he... he hurt you and... and then you called for the doctor.”

“Oh, my Lord...” His aunt sinks down into her chair again.

Unable to look at his aunt, he glances at his uncle who looks much paler than usual. “What did you see, Tamial?” he asks.

“Er... he grabbed Aunt Margaret’s wrists and... he said some very bad things to her. And the he pushed her and she... fell.” Tam can’t resist looking in her direction although he doesn’t try to read her expression. “You didn’t ask the doctor to check your face when he arrived. And... before that... when you were in the first floor water closet... Win could hear.”

“Oh, no... _No..._ ” she whispers, sounding thoroughly wretched. “I _never_ wanted him to see – to _know –_ what Lowell...”

Uncle Hamish strides over to her and places his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “We’ll talk to him. Explain.”

“Yes,” she agrees, accepting the handkerchief he offers her and dabs at her eyes. After a moment, she takes a deep breath. “Yes, we will.” She then turns and addresses Tam again. “But that still doesn’t explain why you feared we would hurt Winslow for behaving in a... similar manner to...”

Tam takes a deep breath. He thinks of his Mam, the White Queen’s Champion. He thinks of his Fa, Uncle Hamish’s best friend. A Champion and a Friend. Tam would like to be both for his cousin. And he knows what his parents would do in this situation.

He looks up and confesses, “The truth is... Win got a letter from someone just before the anniversary party...” And so Tam describes the conversation at the pawn shop and how he’d hidden because Win had had to appear to be alone.

“But we didn’t know how to confirm what he said... And then, this afternoon, after Win’s lessons were finished, I got the idea to try the mirror. I asked it to show us the duel.”

And then he tells them about what they’d seen and how no one had seemed to hear or see either him or Win. “It was like we were ghosts,” Tam confesses. “So, when Lowell hurt you... I’m so sorry, Aunt Margaret. We couldn’t stop him.”

He doesn’t tell her that they had been too shocked to even consider trying to save her. _That_ would be too mortifying to ever admit to!

“It’s all right,” she assures him. “I was fine and he never hurt me again.”

Tam winces. “I... I know.”

“You do?”

He nods. “I... I didn’t _only_ ask the mirror to show us the duel.” He glances at Uncle Hamish apologetically. “I also asked it to show us who really killed Lowell Manchester.”

“Tamial...” his aunt says softly. “No one killed Lowell. He died on the journey to America...”

“He was supposed to,” Tam interrupts her.

“I don’t... I don’t understand,” she replies. The words seem to indicate that she expects an explanation, but her tone seems to ask him not to explain at all.

“That evening, Lord Manchester visited,” Tam continues hesitantly.

She nods. “Yes. I remember.”

“He... he ordered Lowell to go to America. And, as he was leaving, he said... he said...” Tam swallows, gathers his courage, and... “He said he would send Lowell to America, but that Lowell would never step foot on it.”

“No...” Aunt Margaret replies. “No, you must have misunderstood, Tamial. Lord Manchester would _never..._ ”

Tam says, tries to explain, “After... after Lowell hurt you, Winslow wanted to come back but... I didn’t know how to open the mirror on that... that side. I tried everything, but we couldn’t leave. But then, after we heard Lord Manchester say... those things... suddenly we were back. In my room upstairs. Like nothing had happened.” But So Much _had_ happened! Far _too_ much!

“I could take you back there,” he offers – mustering every last ounce of his courage to do so. “I could show you... if you wanted.”

The proposition is met with silence. The very silentest sort of silence.

“You really believe you could, don’t you?” Uncle Hamish wonders aloud.

Tam looks up. Frowns. “Of course I do. I did it already!” And there’s no reason for the mirror to refuse him so long as he asks nicely!

“Hamish,” Margaret interjects. “That’s hardly the point now. Tamial has provided sufficient details to prove to _me_ that he has seen what he claims to have seen.” She turns back to him and confirms, “And Winslow saw and heard all of this with you?”

He nods. “I think he’s angry because... well, I dunno. He didn’t like Lowell Manchester very much. And... Lord Manchester... he really... Well, he must have really... done what he said he did because I don’t think the mirror would lie about something like that...”

Margaret smiles, but the expression somehow looks very sad. “No, I don’t imagine mirrors can lie. They have never lied to me, in any case.” She looks up at her husband and says, “We need to talk to Winslow.”

Tam lets out a blustery sigh. “He’ll know I told you. He’ll never want to speak to me again. Maybe I could just go home?”

Aunt Margaret pats his knee. “We’ll discuss that in the morning. Come on,” she continues without even glancing at the clock, “it’s time for bed.”

Although his aunt doesn’t look at the clock as she announces the time, Tam feels compelled to confirm it, and he is wryly amused at the fact that she is right. It’s nearly ten o’clock: well past bedtime.

He lets his aunt and uncle gesture him up from his chair. “What will you tell Win? About his father? About his grandfather?”

“The truth,” his uncle answers.

“We will tell him that his father did have several good qualities – charm, wit, humor – when I married him, but that he became ill. And yes,” Aunt Margaret continues, answering Tam’s unasked question, “overindulgence in drink and gambling _is_ an illness, dear. A very serious one. The man you saw was not himself, and had not been in a very long time.”

“And... Lord Manchester?” he dares, whispering.

“Tamial does not have to see that man if he does not wish to,” Uncle Hamish declares. “I will look into what really happened aboard the ship – that should not be too difficult a task to accomplish as the ship was one of ours and the company keeps _very_ thorough records. One way or another, we will sort this out.”

“All right.”

Tam receives an escort to his room, quiet thanks for his help, and a wish for pleasant dreams. He doesn’t think he’ll have any though. Despite insisting that he – and everything else – is all right, he doesn’t truly feel that way. Thanks to Time flying with him, he is thirteen years old instead of eleven, but tonight he feels younger than he can ever remember feeling. Young... and unsure. Everything is _not_ all right: Win’s father had not been a nice man and Win’s own grandfather had somehow killed him. No, everything is _not_ All Right. In order for everything to _really_ be all right, Tam suspects it would have to be his Mam and Fa wishing him a _gehd_ night with _callaycious_ dreams.

As he climbs into bed, he closes his eyes and imagines that they are doing just that...

Still, the reality of it would have been better.

 


	11. Duty and Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is **rated M** for non-explicit sexual situations.

 

The Bandersnatch arrives well after sunset, rousing the entire castle and threatening the stability of its foundation with each ear-pounding, stone-shaking, booming _Grru **uff!**_

“Open the gate,” Alice instructs a wincing guard who seems to be in too much discomfort to notice that Alice had hurried outside barefoot with her shabby, borrowed housecoat only half on over her equally shabby and obviously borrowed shrift. “I’ll calm him down. Just open the gate.” The vulture on duty doesn’t have to be told a third time.

The great doors swing open and Alice is nearly bowled over by the frumious beast. (Truly, it is remarkable that a single day away from his groomers at Mamoreal can result in such a stench. He hasn ’t smelled this bad since she’d traded his eye for the Vorpal Sword!) She thinks fleetingly of the brief bath she’d had earlier – had it been only that afternoon? – and then his great, flapping tongue is nearly pushing her over in its slimy enthusiasm to _taste_ that she is truly all right.

“Gah! I’m fine, Bandy,” she insists, waving her arms in protest.

“Grrrb?”

“Yes. Really.”

He eyes her as she tries to wipe the worst of the slobber off of herself with the skirt of the robe.

“Grrrl...” he intones solemnly, looking rather apologetic.

“Uh huh,” she says, not in a particularly forgiving mood at the moment. “Where have you been? Didn’t Bayto find you last night?”

She receives a series of whine-ish growls that she imagines – and since she _still_ can’t speak Bandersnatch, she can _only_ imagine! – are a litany of excuses.

“Never mind. You’re here now,” she says, cutting off what appears to be a thorough self-flagellation. “Thank you for coming.”

He sighs gratefully and she rubs his ears. Luckily, he seems perfectly content to spend the night in the courtyard rather than try to follow her inside the castle and back to the room she is sharing with Tarrant. Although, by the supremely offended look on her husband’s face when she returns, she half expects to find herself keeping Bandy company in the yard tonight.

“So, that _was_ the Bandersnatch arriving,” he deduces. He doesn’t bother to _ask_. He can _smell_ the answer from all the way over there, apparently.

“I requested a bath on my way back,” she consoles him.

“And once you have partaken of it, I shall thank you _generously._ ”

She does and he delivers on that promise, gathering her against his right side and conducting a very Thorough survey of her face and neck with his lips. She falls asleep with her hand over his Heart Mark and his warm breath puffing rhythmically against her once-again washed hair.

Yet another commotion wakes her what seems like only moments later.

“Tha’snot Bandy,” she grumbles, mouthing the words against the sheets.

Tarrant rubs her back consolingly. “I believe _that_ would be the carriage and contingent of the White Guard you ordered, Lady Hightopp.”

“Bugger.”

The twinge of puzzled amusement she feels traveling like a drunken sailor up her heart line from Tarrant tickles her into rolling over and groping toward the edge of the bed. Despite the fact that every muscle in her body screams in silent protest against the action, she manages to stand. “Bloody boggletogs,” she grumps, wincing as she bends over to collect her just-laundered breeches and patched tunic. “Why do people have to wear so many clothes?”

Tarrant snorts, giggles, and whispers, “Perhaps it is merely an attempt at self-restraint.”

“Self-restraint?” she echoes blankly, but when she glances over her shoulder at him and observes his appreciative stare aimed at her bare back, she Understands. “Ah. Perhaps.” And at times and in places like the one they are currently occupying now, Restraint is very needful, indeed.

As Jaspien orders his trunks brought downstairs, Alice nods to the Queen’s Guard (several of whom had volunteered to be her sparring partner on one or two occasions) and nudges Tarrant into the carriage. The supplies she’d requested are there and she smooths a dose of Pain Paste – _quality_ Pain Paste and properly brewed to boot! – on his wound. Someone had thoughtfully included a basket of Mamoreal edibles and as the trunks are lifted onto the back of the carriage and lashed into place, they eat their morning meal which, thankfully, does not taste of gamy meat and mud.

Mindful of how the quality of food seems to have decreased since Jaspien’s imprisonment had begun nearly two decades years ago, Alice reluctantly saves a serving for him. He _had_ acted as their host, after all. It’s the least she can do... well, aside from granting his boon. Which reminds her...

After they have gotten underway and after Jaspien has inspected and gnawed through each morsel, Alice ignores the fact that Tarrant is still glaring at the man and asks, “What is it – precisely – you hope to gain from this venture, sir?”

“My gains need not be precise,” he counters in a bland tone. “Nor need they be _mine_ exclusively. If I’m not mistaken, this is the time of the Barterment, is it not?”

“Yes. In a few days.”

“Then the timing of your visit could not have been better,” he informs them. “My people have tanned leather to trade for necessities. That is my primary objective.”

“So you do _not_ wish to speak to the queen?” Alice clarifies. She had assumed – from what she’d heard from the maid the day before – that Jaspien would try to bargain for a lighter sentence or attempt to persuade the queen that he has paid his debt for his betrayal.

He sighs. “I would like to present my case, of course. However, I realize that is not something you have the authority to guarantee me, _Champion_ Alice.”

“What makes you think that it is within my power to grant you _safe_ passage to Mamoreal?”

He blinks his watery and unremarkable eyes at her. “Frankly, I did not expect you to even honor _this_ request. Why would I have asked for a second? Necessities concern me,” he replies in a disinterested tone. “I do not waste time considering luxuries.”

And with that, the man folds his arms over his chest, settles back against the bench seat, and dozes. Alice reaches for Tarrant’s hand in the silence and his fingers meet her halfway. She glances out the window and smiles for the Bandersnatch which is keeping up with the pace of the horses just fine. She does not curl into her husband’s warmth, although she _wants_ to. She wants to forget what is waiting for her in Mamoreal: a queen, a turn-coat princess, a revolution.

She reminds herself that Tam is safe; Tarrant is healing; she _is_ the Queen’s Champion and if there is a revolution to be faced, then she will face it.

The anxiety she feels burning her heart from the outside in lets her know that Tarrant’s thoughts are probably not dissimilar to her own. Of course he doesn’t want her to fight. Of course he worries that the next time someone swings a blade at her throat she will not step back quickly enough. She worries a little about that as well; it has been _months_ since Alice has had a day of serious training. However, there is no changing that fact. Not now. With a concentrated effort, Alice focuses on the things she _can_ change, the duties she _can_ perform.

There is a queen to advise.

A rebel cause to confirm and consider.

And, if her suspicions are on target, then there will also be a Champion’s Challenge to answer.

She narrows her eyes in thought as she recalls the most recent conversation she had shared with her apprentice:

 _“Tarra, what do you think you’re doing?”_

 _“What does it **look** like, Champion?”_

 _“It **looks** like you’re experiencing a very Serious Error in Judgment.”_

 _“Does it? That’s... interesting. Although not very surprising. You never were strong enough to go against my mother.”_

 _“And you fancy yourself in that role now?”_

 _“What do_ _**you** _ _think?”_

And she does. She thinks; she Believes...

She closes her eyes and sighs. Alice can see where this path leads. If the information she has is correct – if these rebels are who they seem to be: willfully ignorant children – then there _is_ only one way to end this. For good. And Tarrant is _not_ going to like it at all. In fact, this path scares _her_. Luckily, they have several hours of travel left yet during which time Alice can make an effort to resign herself to what is coming.

Beside her, Tarrant twitches and inhales sharply, no doubt in reply to the heart ache that had throbbed through her before she could manage to subdue it.

“What are thinking, Alice?” Tarrant asks in a very soft tone, his inquiry resonating along the heart line, which, by the feel of it, has healed as much as it can. It seems... muffled or a bit smothered, but she _can_ feel him better now than she had before. It is progress she receives gladly.

She looks into his eyes which are a bit more yellow than she would like. Her fingers move over the back of his right hand and she points a finger toward their travel companion. He _appears_ to be sound asleep, yes, but Alice can’t risk the chance that he’s not. And the subject of her thoughts... well, even if she and Tarrant had been traveling alone, she would have been wary of discussing her thoughts here. In a carriage of questionable durability.

“About the Barterment,” she answers just as softly. “The hides from Causwick might change things a bit in our favor.”

“How so?”

As Alice explains a bit about the dynamics of supply and demand – what she can remember of it from her time apprenticing with the trading company, that is – the land rolls past. Even though the horses had not been given much time to rest after they’d arrived at Causwick, the carriage makes good time. They arrive at Mamoreal sooner than Alice would have thought possible. Yesterday, this safe haven had seemed _years_ away, an _impossible_ distance for their feet and wills to manage. And yet here they are. In only a half dozen hours.

The carriage pulls to a halt just outside the outer gates, waking Jaspien. The man scowls out the window and observes, “We’re outside the castle.”

“Yes,” Alice replies, opening the door.

“And... we are disembarking _here?_ ”

“Did you actually believe I would permit you to enter the castle without having you thoroughly searched first?”

“I... beg your pardon?”

Alice explains patiently as the guard begins to untie the trunks from the boot of the carriage, “Your things will have to pass inspection before I can allow them within the castle walls.”

The man ignores the intent stare Tarrant is giving him and replies in an irked tone, “Champion Alice, what could I possibly be attempting to transport other than what I have claimed?”

“I can’t answer that,” she replies. “But it is my job to ensure that your visit here poses no threats whatsoever. So. You can choose to submit yourself to a search of your person or you can make your own way back to Causwick Callion.”

Although he is very unhappy about what he no doubt sees as a violation of his person, he consents. Alice instructs the senior member of the guard not to escort Jaspien into the castle until every weapon, potion, powder, or questionable item has been confiscated and destroyed. She then reaches for Tarrant’s hand and strides up the drive, leaving the ruler of the Callion at the White Army’s tender mercies.

“Do you think that was _really_ necessary?” Tarrant muses, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Alice smirks. “Do I think he’s actually planning an assassination or some such act of violence? No. However, it _is_ necessary in that we need a little time alone with Mirana to sort things out. And Jaspien needs to know that we still don’t trust him.” She tilts her head to the side, considering. “If he has any sense at all, he’ll use this time to think about how he might take this chance to begin making amends for his past actions.”

“Alice...” Tarrant warns her softly. “There _is_ no forgiveness for his treachery.”

“None that _you_ would offer him,” she corrects him.

“Aye. I cannae f’rgive his orderin’ yer capture.”

“I’m not asking you to, Raven.” And she never will.

They climb the stairs and Alice smiles at Lakerton, who opens the front doors for them. Before she can ask to see the queen, Nivens scrambles into the foyer, nearly tangling up his legs and tripping himself in his haste.

“You’re back! _You_ ’ _re back!_ And you’re _LATE!_ ” he insists without conferring with his pocket watch.

“A bad habit, I know,” she replies wryly.

In true McTwisp fashion, the white rabbit doesn’t even comment on Tarrant’s left arm which is still cradled in a sling across his chest. Alice doubts he even notices though his irritation. “Well, come along! Come along! You mustn’t keep her majesty waiting!”

“We’re waiting on _ye_ teh announce us,” Tarrant reminds him.

“Oh, goodness! Yes, follow me!”

They climb the stairs, stride down the hall, open the door - “Gently, please! I’ve been slammed more times than I can count in the last two days!” the doorknob begs pitifully – and then...

“Alice!”

“Mirana,” Alice replies, wrapping her arms around the queen.

“You’ve heard... you know that... that...”

“Yes, although I should like to hear it once more, just to be sure. And,” she continues, alternately patting her friend on the shoulder and rubbing her back, “I should very much like to know where the majority of the White Army is. The grounds seem rather... empty.”

“Of course. Of course.” The queen gathers herself and invites Alice and Tarrant to join her and the king in the sitting area of her office. They do and the queen reaches for her husband’s hand as she confesses, “I ordered the army to Crimson Harbor.”

Alice feels herself stiffen. She can easily imagine how that must have looked to the citizens of the White Realm, watching as the army had stormed its way through Underland...

“And?”

Mirana takes a deep breath. “I ordered them to detain the rebels _only._ To retrieve Tarra safely and bring her home.”

“But?”

“But _this_ ,” Mirana tells her, reaching for a roll of parchment and handing it to her. “It arrived last night. Bayne reported that Tarra delivered this _herself._ She stepped out to meet the army but she didn’t – _wouldn_ ’ _t..._ ”

Accepting it, Alice leans back in her chair and unfurls the document, reads it, and bites back a smile.

“A Champion’s Challenge,” she observes as neutrally as possible. Yes, her Belief in Tarra has not been misplaced. “The only thing that _could_ stop an assault from an army,” Alice continues. “And the only thing that could prevent the army from bringing her home: she’s vowed her services to the New Resistance and they are Challenging you. I believe she may have done you a great favor, Your Majesty.”

Mirana gapes at her. “Alice... how can you _say_ that? She... _she..!_ ”

Alice briefly grasps Tarrant ’s hand and forces a cleansing breath. This is the moment, she sees, in which her musings in the carriage earlier will come to the forefront. She wishes she could have found a way to prepare her husband for this... but she is not sure it would have made a difference.

Alice stands, crosses the rug, and kneels at her friend’s feet. “Mirana,” she answers softly, “Your Majesty,” continues with a glance toward the king, “Tarra is doing _precisely_ what I have trained her to do. She _is_ acting as _your_ Champion even now. And she is trusting us to bring her home. However, that route cannot be accomplished with an army escort.”

She pauses as Tarrant’s emotions begin to intensify through their now-imperfect connection. His mind is racing, she knows. He’s thinking ahead, following the path of her logic and considering the only strategy that has a hope of resolving this issue once and for all. And he is not liking it. Not one bit.

“Your Majesties,” Alice tells them both, hating that she must leave Tarrant to this discovery without the comfort of her touch, her physical presence. But her vows hold her here, now. There is nothing she can do for her husband. Not _now_. _Later_ , however... “Allow me to answer the Challenge. Accept.”

Mirana shakes her head. “But... _Alice!_ If we accept then we must meet on the battlefield and if you begin the duel...”

“One of us must die,” Alice replies, trying to remain calm as Tarrant’s agitation burns through Anxiety and approaches Terror- _Panic-_ _ **Fury-MADNESS!**_ “Yes. That is the point, Your Majesties. These rebels... these _children_ have never seen Death. They think battle is glorious and honorable. We must show them precisely what it is they are seeking. Tarra will rally them all together – each and every one of them – and then we will show them Death.” This declaration is met with silence. Alice concludes, “But I have not forgotten my promise to bring Tarra home safely. She will be. It won’t be your daughter who falls. I promise.”

“Alice...” the king pleads hoarsely. “We cannot...”

She sighs. “It is the best option for ending this peaceably and with as little bloodshed as possible. These children _want_ to fight. We must convince them that what they want is vile and not at all what they believe it to be.” Alice turns toward the queen. “You have both raised children. You know they will not listen to reason, not when they believe they are in the right and we are in the wrong.”

She stands. “Please, trust me in this.” The words are not _only_ meant for the queen and king.

“Alice,” Mirana begins, looking lost, distraught, on the verge of tears.

“You are not choosing your daughter’s life over mine,” Alice assures her. “ _I_ am choosing her life. This is my choice. Please accept it. Let me show these children what war is. Let Tarra come home.”

And because Mirana is a mother, she cannot do anything other than agree. She nods, tears rolling down her face.

Alice offers her most reassuring smile through the _burning_ of her Heart Mark. “If you’ll excuse Tarrant and I for a moment...?”

“Oh! Of... of course,” Mirana replies, clearly remembering that Tarrant _is_ present. She glances around Alice to where he is no doubt gripping the right armrest of the chair with enough force to reshape the wood. Whatever she sees is _not_ pleasant; Mirana cringes at the sight. “Come, Dale. We need to speak to the children.”

As the queen leads her husband from the room, Alice turns, takes this moment to absorb the sight of her husband while he still has the means and the motivation to restrain himself. For what she has just sworn to do, she doesn’t doubt he is furious enough to kill her himself. Or, more likely, hie away with her to Upland and smash every mirror in existence.

His eyes are the darkest red she has ever seen. The color matches his heart line – her blood – actually. His face is pale – too pale – and set as if carved from stone.

“I am not breaking my promise,” she informs him softly, moving to kneel at _his_ feet. “I am choosing us.”

“You are choosing to _die_ ,” he answers in the voice of the Blackness. Alice aches to touch him, but she doesn’t. She knows what one touch could lead to and while she might not be opposed to confronting his violence and passion all at once, she knows that he would not be able to forgive himself for permitting the Blackness to control- _dominate-_ _ **claim!**_ her a _second_ time.

“ _Think_ , Raven. There is a way.”

His eyelids twitch as he does just that. He thinks. And his eye color begins to fade into a lighter, more rational hue.

“I will need your help,” she tells him. “This is one of the things that only you and I can do... together. Please, Tarrant.”

He is still furious – his orange irises and the simmering heat over her heart attest to that – but he is beginning to See...

“The queen needs us. Underland needs us,” she reminds him. “And _I_ need _you_.”

Alice dares to touch him, then. She places her hands on his knees and feels him shudder in reaction. She dares a bit more, rising to her feet and seating herself on his lap, careful of his left shoulder and arm – the Pain Paste will likely not have healed a stab wound that deep in only a handful of hours. She places her hands on his cheeks and presses her forehead to his.

“I need you,” she pleads, her heart aching with his as his irises shift in color yet again; this time into the color of pure misery: black. She cannot bear the sight of it so she closes her eyes, but that only directs her attention to the emotions pouring out over her heart, drenching her in the flames of his desolation.

But she forces herself to say the words. This is the only way. The best way. And he    
_must Trust her!_

“Tarrant, I need you to help me die.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tamial Hightopp – purveyor of the Past and sharer of Secrets – has been demoted, just as he’d expected.

That doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

He watches from the parlor window as the carriage pulls away. The carriage in which Uncle Hamish and Win are riding. The carriage they will take to the company office to look up the name of the captain and each member of the crew that had sailed on the ship Lowell Manchester had left for America aboard. The carriage that will take them on their adventure. Or rather, the carriage they will use to complete _Tam’_ s Adventure.

Yes, he’s jealous. This time yesterday afternoon, this adventure had belonged to him and Win. Just the two of them. If he’d known that Uncle Hamish would be taking his place, he wouldn’t have been so quick to confess to what they’d seen in the looking glass, that’s for sure!

Or... is it?

Tam sighs. Last night, despite telling secrets and confessing to Things he Should Not Have Done – confessed _voluntarily!_ Without being caught or even suspected beforehand! – he had felt... Well, of course he’d been scared at the time. The things he’d seen had been scary. And thoughts of his punishment for being so reckless had been a little frightening. But, last night, he’d felt... stronger. Strong enough to take his punishments – whatever they would be – because it had been _more_ important to help Win. Last night, he’d felt a little bit... heroic.

Today, however, he feels like a heel.

It could have been _him_ going out with Win, infiltrating Uncle Hamish’s office during the man’s “croquet match” and trying to deduce who might have done Lord Manchester’s dirty work for him aboard the ship. Lowell hadn’t boarded it already dead, of course! So... how had they done it? Had it been the captain and a poisoned bottle of liquor? Had it been a sailor and an argument over a card game? Had it been an anonymous shove during a storm, an “accidental” knock on the head?

Tam shivers. His Imagination is making his mind a very Dark and Unsettling place today. The weather doesn’t help, either; it’s raining.    
_Again._

He’s tempted to go back upstairs to the looking glass and request a nice _sunny_ day to escape to!

At the thought of sunny days, Tam recalls the gardens around the castle at Mamoreal. He misses those warm days. He misses his friends. He wonders about Lanny and Ian... and he wonders about that little rath they’d found before Tam had been told to pack up his things.

“We’re going home to Iplam,” his Fa had said and, at the time, the words had made no sense whatsoever. Iplam had always been That Place Where We Spend A Few Weeks Every Summer Working Hard Building and Fixing Things. It had never been _home._ Not to Tam. The castle was – _is_ – home! And he misses everything about it:

His two best friends and the croquet pitch...

The four young jabberwockies that sometimes swoop down for a visit and the gossiping cherry trees...

Thackery’s nonsensical and haltingly told tales as he bangs around in the kitchen...

Mally’s stern lectures on the proper way to pass the sugar at tea...

The hat workshop...

The balconies...

The chatty doorknobs and grouchy keyholes and...

“Tamial? Are you all right?”

He looks up as Aunt Margaret lays a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t want her to see him cry, so he turns back to the window and glares out at the gray day and rain-drenched street.

“I wanted to go with them,” he mutters.

She sighs. “And they would have invited you, but your father is very upset that you’d traveled through the looking glass without permission.”

“You didn’t _have_ to tell them...” Oh, the betrayal! Why, when _he_ grows up, he’s going to be Different. No, _he_ won’t run around telling adventuresome children’s parents what they’ve been up to!

“Yes, I did, dear,” she replies.

Well. There’s really no way to argue with that. He huffs.    
_Grown ups!_

“When can I go home?” he asks, then winces when he realizes that “home” is in Iplam, _not_ Mamoreal. He sighs. At least the weather’s better there than it is here!

“Your father said he would come and get you tomorrow night.”

Tam nods and, having nothing else to say to the woman who had turned coat and _ratted him out_ , he heads out of the room and toward the stairs. As Tam has no interest in books or sewing or younger cousins, he finds himself in the dusty attic again.

He listlessly searches for that parasol that Aunt Margaret had requested but he hasn’t been able to find yet. And still can’t.

He wastes the rest of the day up there... with all of the other forgotten, useless, _homeless_ things.

 

*~*~*~*

 

After the Challenge – containing the queen ’s acceptance and Alice’s signature – has been sent on its way to Crimson Harbor and the rebels (and Alice’s own apprentice) there, Alice finds the royal family in the queen’s tower parlor.

Over the years and with the birth of each child, rooms had been opened and refurbished along the spiral staircase; this tower has always been the home of Mirana’s family. Always. Well... with one recent exception: Tarra had moved into Alice’s old Champion’s quarters the same day she had donned her uniform for the first time. And _this_ is not the first time Alice has had to interrupt the queen’s private time with her family although this _is_ the first time doing so has unsettled her.

Yes, just as she had suspected – imagined, dreaded – they are _all_ taking this turn of events Very Badly. Tarrant especially. There is nothing Alice can do to change what must happen – and it _must_ happen; after deliberating on the possible outcomes during the journey back to Mamoreal, Alice had realized that _this_ sacrifice must be made... she only hopes it will have the effect she hopes for – but her job now is to see to the queen and her children’s safety and wellbeing. There will be time for Tarrant soon, she knows. But this – her _duty_ – must come first.

She opens the door, surveys the room, and calls forth every ounce of courage she has. She must show them that everything is fine. They must have confidence, faith, and an open mind or Alice ’s death will be for naught.

“I will show you that there is nothing to fear,” Alice says, holding out a hand for Amallya to take. The young hattress is still in shock – hearing that your sister will fight for the enemy on the morrow _is_ rather startling news – so it takes the young woman a moment before she notices Alice’s outstretched hand... and takes it. Mirana looks up from where she has pressed her face into Thacie’s hair. Next to her, Alicibeth holds her mother’s hand, looking very pale and drawn. Alice includes Chestor, Dalerian, Leivlan, and the king in her invitation. “Come with me.”

They do.

She leads them through the castle corridors and up the winding stairs of the Far South Tower... to the room where Absolem still guards and oversees the Oraculum. When she opens the door, he is perched on the podium that holds the scroll. Waiting.

“Am I late?” she asks him with a wry smile.

His wings rise and fall in the approximation of an exasperated shrug.

“Yes,” she continues, “but I’m sure you’re used to it by now.” She imagines Absolem would very much like to call her _stupid_ again and the memory of him doing so tickles her. She struggles to keep the humor from eking out: Tarrant would most definitely not welcome the sensation. Not now. Not today.

“Look,” Alice invites the queen and Mirana steps forward to regard the silent oracle. The scene is the same as it has been for over a year:

Tarra stands with Leif beneath the arbor, his First Claw is on its leather cord but around _her_ neck and his expression is one of pure flunderwhapped wonderment.

“How could this _still_ be the future if Tarra _isn_ ’ _t_ still acting as your Champion?” Alice asks her and Mirana shudders, reaching out blindly for her. Alice gathers the queen in her arms as the king, whose paw is resting on his wife’s back, takes his turn peering down at the scroll. Their children follow him.

Although everyone is still unnaturally silent, there is a measure of hope to it now that lifts the horrible weight from their shoulders and smooths the frowns of worry from their brows.

Mirana makes no move to untangle herself from her Champion’s embrace and so Alice nods for the king to escort the children out the still open door. Gesturing, he gathers everyone and herds them into the stairwell.

“You see?” Alice whispers softly to the queen – her friend – as the door closes behind the king and the children. “Everything will be all right.”

“No, no it won’t!” Mirana insists. “How can you even _think_ that when you will be dead and it will be _my daughter_ who has _murdered_ you?”

Alice places her hands on the queen’s arms and gives her a gentle shake. “Stop. Stop this, Mirana, and _listen to me!_ I will _not_ turn Tarra into a murderer. _I will_ _ **not.**_ ”

The queen stakes a deep breath and opens her eyes.

Alice promises, “The hand that delivers my death will not be Tarra’s.”

Mirana’s brow clears as Alice’s oath is absorbed by the silence. But then she frowns in thought, “Alice, whose hand then, will it be?”

She reaffirms her grip on her friend’s arms for a moment before dropping her hands. “I cannot tell you; please don’t ask.”

“But... I don’t understand...”

“I know you don’t and I’m sorry. But I need you to have faith in me, in my promise to put a stop to the rebellion, to bring your daughter home _safe_ and _unharmed._ Yes, she will be Changed by these events, but she will _not_ carry the stain of murder on her hands or soul.”

Mirana examines Alice’s face and Alice submits to the searching stare. After a long moment, the queen nods. “I believe you, Alice.”

“Thank you.”

For another moment, neither woman moves. And then Mirana sighs out a breath of relief. “Everything really will be all right,” she says and, finally, it is not a question.

“Yes. And when the time is right, step forward and offer the rebels amnesty and open negotiations.”

“Negotiations? You still believe they will want to fight after they watch you... _a woman... a_ _ **wife**_ _and_ _ **mother**_ _..._ fall on the battlefield?”

Alice assures her, “It is my intention to turn them against Death, not War. The issues that gave rise to this rebellion will not have gone away. They must be addressed. We must find a way to allow the people of the White Realm to partake in _all_ traditions that have shaped their heritage. Even fighting.”

“But I have forbidden it. The risks... My vows...”

“I know. But you will find a way,” Alice consoles her. “I trust _you_ , Mirana, my most saganistute friend. You _will_ find a way.”

The queen’s eyes mist with tears and Mirana’s voice quavers when she speaks. “I should forbid you to die, Alice. I will never forgive myself if I do not.”

“Don’t think on it,” Alice tells her. “Think only of Tarra, of peace, of Underland. And yes, some sacrifices must be made for that, some concessions must be given. But it will not be in vain.”

Mirana nods, defeated by Alice’s logic. Alice reaches around her and raps on the door. A moment later, the king – who stands alone on the landing – opens it and ushers his wife outside.

“Are you coming with us?” he asks softly. The sadness in his eyes tells her that he had overheard their conversation. Alice doesn’t mind; Mirana will need him to be strong for her and he will best accomplish that by understanding what she is facing.

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” she replies in an equally soft tone.

He nods. “I shall leave the door open, then.”

Alice watches them go and only when the door at the base of the turret has shut behind them does she turn back to Absolem.

“There is one thing – two things – I would like to know,” she begins. He does not look surprised by this. But, then again, _nothing_ surprises Absolem. “Will Tarrant be all right? Will Tam understand?”

For a long moment, Absolem does nothing. He gives her no indication that he had even heard her. But then he flaps his wings, rising over the Oraculum. With practiced ease, alights on one half of the scroll and walks it closed. He continues walking and, beneath the rolled up parchment, the top of the podium moves as well. Absolem measures out a length that seems agreeable to him and then, with a flick of one of his legs, kicks it open.

Alice steps forward and looks down at the scene. It is – undeniably – of the future, of the _distant_ future. And the scene is one that she once mentioned to Tarrant moments after she’d realized it might be Possible. And it is _more_ than Possible. If all goes as planned, it will be Fact. A Future Fact.

She sighs. “Thank you, Absolem.”

He nods and closes the Oraculum once more. There is no reason to linger now, so Alice turns toward the open door and makes her exit.

She knows where she has to go next. She follows her feet through the castle, taking a path that is as familiar as it is missed. She goes home: to her and Tarrant’s and Tamial’s apartment, where her husband is waiting for her.

“He’s in a foul mood,” the keyhole warns her.

“Yes, I can Feel it,” she agrees and opens the door.

The room looks exactly as they’d left it when they’d left for Iplam. White sheets are still draped over the furniture. Aside from the un-sheeted looking glass through which they had sent their son to London only days earlier, Tarrant is the only source of _real_ ness in the entire room of ghostly, vague shapes.

“You took the sling off,” she observes.

“I’m fine,” he insists. In the wake of his declaration, the silence somehow seems more... alive, inescapable, malicious.

“Margaret sent a letter while we were... away,” he lisps, not looking up from the closed book in his hands. “It’s on the table.”

Alice doesn’t alter her course to collect it. She sits beside him on the sofa and wraps her arms around his shoulders. “What did she say?”

He leans his head against hers and lets out a breath. “Tam has gotten into trouble. Galumphing about London with Winslow. Opening up looking glasses and traveling into the past.”

“Did he?”

“Saw Hamish and Lowell’s duel. Your sister wants to know if that’s really possible.”

“And did you reply?”

“Aye.”

She waits a moment, but when he doesn’t elaborate, she gently teases, “And you told her that anything is possible so long as you believe it is?”

He takes a deliberate breath, swallows, and then reaches for her arm.

“I cannae do this,” he declares, not looking up from the tome in his lap. “Please, Alice. Let us save Underland another way.”

Alice pets his hair and inhales his scent. She doesn’t answer his plea with words. Anything she would say at this point would merely be a siren’s call to the madness and she wants him sane. She will not waste a moment with him; she will not let the madness take that from him, from her, from _them_.

Instead, she collects the book – an encyclopedia of anatomy that had once been part of her mother’s library – and sets it aside. She’d shown him earlier precisely which diagrams they will need to concern themselves with. Alice knows she will not be able to avoid _all_ pain, but she is not interested in tormenting herself, either.

She takes her husband’s right hand and presses it against her skin, positioning his fingers _just so._ He caresses the unmarred flesh with his fingertips and his gaze focuses on the area. Tomorrow morning, she will be cut open, bleeding... _dying_...

“No,” he whispers, snatching his hand away and pulling her close. She falls gracelessly in his lap, clutches his shoulders with her hands. “No,” he insists. “ _No_.”

She wants to tell him that everything will be fine; she has seen the future in the Oraculum, after all. She _knows_ that they have only to follow the path that is before them and everything will be just fine. But Tarrant takes no comfort from that document. He trusts prophecies – _“And with his Vorpal Sword in hand...”_ – not rolls of dried up vellum, the images upon which have been known to change from time to time.

Alice closes her eyes and draws upon a line of poetry that had caught her eye one night when she’d been quizzing Tam on his lessons:

“ _In a blaze of pragmatic invention, he shall wrestle with Fate, and shall reign..._ ”

“... _Alice_...”

She turns toward the warm breath against her cheek and groans into Tarrant’s hot, insistent, wet mouth. She forgets about the queen, about Jaspien, about the battle on the morrow, about the sacrifice she will make, about the hearts that will be broken.

She gives herself to him and he Takes her. She is his to do with whatever he desires, whatever he must.

He is not gentle.

But, then again, she has never asked him to be.

When his hands tremble, when he leans over her and hesitates, she reaches for him, calls him back to her with a touch, assures him that he is not alone. She is still here. Still _his._ She takes in the pain from his heart, halves it, marvels at the intensity of his despair. If she had believed he were capable of answering coherently, she might have asked him why...

 _Why...?_

But she doesn’t ask and he cannot say.

Which is fine, in the end. They Speak with hands and lips, legs, hips, and tight grips.

No words are necessary.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The line Alice quotes is from “The Manlet” from The Hunting of the Snark and Other Poems and Verses. Lewis Carroll. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1903. Or check it out here on this webpage: http://www.poetry-archive.com/c/the_manlet.html
> 
> 2\. Why does it have to be Alice who dies and not, say, Tarrant who is also a Champion of Underland? The answer to that is actually very simple and if you can guess it before I “explain” it in the story, I will be one Happy Author. (^__~)
> 
> 3\. And now we see why the scene from the Oraculum (which Mirana first witnessed in the Epilogue of Book 3) is important. Indeed, how can Tarra and Leif still be together in the future if she has betrayed her family? The answer, of course, is: they can't. Hence Alice's faith in her apprentice.


	12. Lessons in War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is **rated M** for violence and gore.

 

Tamial Hightopp – man of Action and defier of Parental Declarations! – pokes his head out of the mirror and listens very carefully. He examines the room in front of him, recognizing the sheet-covered furniture and thanks his parents’ oversight: they had _not_ recovered the looking glass after all! 

When only silence tumbles into his ears and stillness unfolds before his eyes, Tam grins and steps through the mirror completely. 

He’s  _home._

_Finally!_

Oh, he knows he’ll have to go back to London soon – before Aunt Margaret comes to wake him for breakfast – but for now he can sleep in his own bed! Perhaps on his familiar mattress, he’ll be able to escape the nightmares that had stalked him last night! 

He tiptoes over to the living room window and pulls back the curtain. It’s dawn. The line of the Witzend-side horizon is darkening against a softly glowing sky. Wispy clouds dance slowly against the backdrop of pale gold. 

Yes, the weather is most _definitely_ better here! 

The motions of the cherry trees, their boughs waving in the breeze, draw his gaze and Tam sighs with contentment at the sight. How he has  _missed this place!_

He turns and surveys the apartment, frowning at the open door to his parents’ room. He peeps through the portal and notes the utter... _chaos_ within. Bed sheets and pillows – two of which had been separated from their cases! – litter the floor. Even the curtains are askew! The wardrobe doors are open and changes of clothes are scattered all over the place. Even... 

_Is that a..._ _**sock** _ _on top of the dresser mirror?!_

Tam’s brows arch upward with incredulity. 

“Well. Something... happened in here...” 

And considering the people to whom this room belongs and the activities he has caught them at once before (only once, thank the Fates!), Tam would rather not think in any more detail on the matter, thank you very much! 

He turns away and reconsiders the mirror. Should he go back through? If his Mam and Fa walk through the front door and catch him here... 

Tam frowns and considers his options. Yes, he _would_ like to sleep a bit longer in his _own_ bed... but is it worth the risk? Perhaps another bedroom in the castle would do just as well. Now he’ll just have to find one that’s not in use. 

He creeps to the front door and pauses to listen again. Gently, mindful of the keyhole’s snores, he eases the portal open and slips into the hall. The very, _very_ silent hall. 

He scowls. Yes, it’s early in the morning, but even at times like this there is _some_ noise echoing in the corridors: fish butlers dusting, frog footmen delivering tea trays, and everyone knows Thackery is up early banging away in the kitchen and _that_ racket echoes for _miles!_

Tam sneaks down the hallway, toward the stairs. He encounters no one, only Silence. It’s not until he’s making his way past the terrace that overlooks the training field that he hears _any_ sounds of life at all! 

“No, no! You’ve got to hold it up higher. Yes, like that!” 

_Thwack!_

“Ow!” 

“You dunce! What did you let it go for?” 

“... got a splinter in my thumb.” 

“Oh for...! Come on. Your turn now.” 

Tam approaches the edge of the terrace and peers over the railing. There, on the pitch, two boys are facing off to do battle with wooden swords. Two boys Tam knows _very_ well! 

“Lanny! Ian!” he shouts, forgetting his priority to remain stealthy and undetected. 

Lanny pauses in mid swing and looks up, shading his eyes. “Tam?! What are you doing here?” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Upland?” 

Tam smirks and skips down the stairs. “Well... yes, I am,” he admits, grinning. 

The twin princes gape at him, then at each other, and then they grin. 

“Awesome!” they chorus. 

“How’d you get back by yourself?” Ian presses. 

“Through the looking glass,” Tam replies, his chest puffing up. “Of course.” 

“Of course? _Of course?!_ ” Ian stutters. 

Lanny rushes to confirm, “So, you figured out how to do it?” 

“I’ll show you later _if_ you don’t tell anyone I was here!” 

“Deal!” 

They shake on it. 

“So...” Tam muses, taking a moment to take a good look around. “Where is everyone?” 

The twins’ eyes widen until Tam fears they’ll topple right out of their sockets and find their way into luncheon soup. “You don’t _know?_ ” Lanny whispers, clearly scandalized. 

“Know what?” 

“About the battle!” Ian informs him. 

“What battle?” 

“That battle between two Champions, of course,” a new voice inserts. 

Tam turns and watches as Maevyn waddles around the corner with what appears to be a suspiciously Thrambleberry-juice colored stain on its jaw. 

“Which two champions?” Tam asks, his heart pounding so loud his manners tumble right out of his mind. 

“Princess Tarranya and Alice,” the jabberwocky replies absently. 

Tam gapes at Maevyn then turns and gapes at the twins. “Why are you still _here?_ ” 

Ian winces and Lanny grumps, “We’re not allowed to go. Bethie’s watching us.” 

Tam cranes his neck and searches the pitch, the orchard, the castle windows. “Well... I don’t see her here watching us _now..._ do you?” 

Ian grins. Lanny giggles. Tam turns toward Maevyn. 

“What?” the young jabberwocky asks, looking up from licking its berry-juice-coated claws. 

Tam eyes the creature’s back and muses, “How many bushels of Thrambleberries would it cost us for you to give us a ride?” 

 

*~*~*~* 

 

The first hint Tarra had been given that not everything was as it appeared to be – the first hint that she had not been the _hunter_ , as she’d thought, but the _prey_ – had come the moment Abler Masonmark had held out a hand to her as she’d half-sat, half-lain on the floor of the tunnel, trying desperately not to crush the dormouse hiding in her cloak hood. He had calmly held out his hand to help her up and she had Known. 

As he had pulled her to her feet, she had taken a moment to marvel: he’d played her, damn his slithy, shrifty black heart. And here she’d been so proud of herself for playing  _him!_

From the outset, he had been part of her game. Tarra – or, rather _Dirka Worthwool_ – had drawn Abler Masonmark in. Not because she had liked _him_ (Eugh! The very _idea_ turns her stomach!) but because she had needed to be _noticed._ She’d been a newcomer to town – unavoidably noticeable – but with the _other_ newcomers that had followed in her wake, Tarra had known that it was up to her to draw as much attention to herself – and away from _them_ – as possible. For a moment, she had been _furious._ This assignment had been given to _her!_ Not to Mallymkun and Bayto! Not to that blasted boy lion lurking in the shadows! 

_But no,_ she’d thought to herself. _Calm, Tarra. Control. Change the rules of the game, just as Mistress Alice taught you._

And she had. She had allowed them to follow her, had allowed them the privilege of listening for the muttermongings. She had tacitly joined their team, been their diversion. For the first day, she had managed quite well, she’d thought, despite the lack of inflammatory rumors. But each following day, her task had gotten harder, the weight of her responsibilities heavier, the loneliness... sharper. 

_“Fight the battle that_ ’ _s in front of you, ahead of you...”_

She had taken Mistress Alice’s words to heart, had not looked over her shoulder, had not shown her cards, had not revealed the fact that she is always followed by her mother’s most trusted allies. She had thought – on several occasions – that she had been needlessly overcautious. 

Obviously, she had not expected Abler to turn out to be the leader of the rumored resistance movement against the White Queen. 

Her first reaction to this revelation had been jubilation: perhaps she’d under-appreciated Luck; the fellow _is_ a rather useful friend to have at your back! 

But, as she’d looked up into Abler’s triumphant expression there in the dark, dank tunnel beneath the Orash orchards surrounding Crimson Harbor, she’d wondered: _had_ it been Luck to lead her to the very object of her search? Or had Abler suspected who she really was when he’d strutted up to her in the bakery that first day? Had _she_ been played? 

She’d played back, just as Mistress Alice had taught her to do: 

_“Infiltrate their ranks. By any means necessary. Count their numbers. Gain their trust. And make the game_ _**yours.** _ _”_

Yes, Tarra has done – and is doing – that very thing! Yes, now... now, she’s not just playing Abler Masonmark; she’s playing _all of them._

Still, those first moments had been frightening. She had stood there, in the dark with the flickering torches surrounding her, held aloft by too many to fight. Abler had stood too close to her, his hand on her arm, his fingers ready to grasp, trap,  _take..._

The warning that she had been played had come far too late for her to turn back. It had come when the only path left open to her had been the one onward and forward into unforgivable and terrifying territory. 

But Mistress Alice had prepared her for this: 

_ “Fight the battle that’s in front of you and ahead of you: you cannot undo your missteps. Your footwork must be better than your opponent’s. Run rings around him, Tarra.” _

To hesitate in the face of Discovery – to try to fight the facts as she had faced more than a dozen armed rebels – would have been the end of her and the end of the mission; she had allowed the guise of Dirka Worthwool to fall away; she had moved forward, her bearing regal despite her mussed hair and the dull, uninspiring color of it. There had been no point in pretending she is not the daughter of the very woman they seek to depose. There had been no point in pretending she is not strong, a warrior, a fighter trained by the best Champion in the known history of the White Realm. There had been no point in hiding, in backtracking, in even looking over her shoulder at the might-have-beens with regret. 

Tarra had been trained  _ very  _ well and she knows that the first hint that her disguise has been found out, that her motives have been questioned, will be her  _ last  _ if she is not very  _ fast  _ and very  _ Alice-y. _

_ “Run rings around him, Tarra.  _ _**Run.** _ _ ” _

She had done just that. _Is_ doing just that. 

She _runs_ but she does not run _away._

“Are ye ready fer this?” 

Tarra glances briefly in Abler’s direction as he – _yet again!_ – finds it impossible to keep his blasted hands to himself. She thinks longingly of a hot bath and forces herself not to step away from the warm hand nestled against her lower back. Still, she’s allowed to have a _bit_ of fun, isn’t she? 

Tarra winks at Corea’s blatantly jealous stare. Yes, Corea had managed – thank the Fates! – to convince Abler to share her pallet the night before but _she_ ’ _s_ not the one he has chosen to stand with here on the battlefield, is she? Tarra knows she shouldn’t rile the girl – the poor thing is obviously in love with the worthless tail feather of a frumious borogove – but... she can’t help it! 

“Am I ready?” she echoes, grinning out at the sea of broken, cracked, weed-crowded tiles. “I was _born_ ready.” 

The rebel force finds this highly amusing. The ten dozen or so just-turned men and women, and even some creatures that Abler has rallied to his cause, all find a reason to laugh at her overconfident words. Abler finds this particularly reassuring and not only removes his hand from her person but also strides off, no doubt to inspect something or otherwise make himself look Very Important. 

Yes, she has charmed the enemy very nicely. Well, except for Corea, everyone laughs at Tarra’s wit and bravado. Their two captives, however, do not seem to share their... _rebellious_ sense of humor. 

“Tarra, please,” Leif rumbles too softly for anyone to hear over the chuckles and giggles and bellows of laughter. “You can _see_ where this path leads. Turn away now.” 

She feels her temper flash. Her shoulders tense. She opens her mouth and, surprisingly, the words of accusation she had _intended_ to say get lost, confused, reordered. She hears herself ask in a tone that is too serious, too loud, “Turn away?! I suppose I could... but would you respect me in the morning, lion man?” 

Yes, her tone had been too serious but she has the presence of mind to force a smirk onto her lips. The gesture feels stiff, unnatural. It unsettles her as nothing she has done so far has managed to do. 

Masonmark and his army laugh. They laugh as if they hear a joke and not a very Serious Challenge taking place right here, out in the open, in their very midst. 

Tarra tilts her head to the side and puts a hand to her ear, miming like a clown, entertaining and distracting the masses. “Ah, _finally._ I think I hear the melodious steps of an arriving army. Here,” she continues, pulling off her cloak with a flourish and laying it gently over Leif’s bound hands. “Make yourself _useful_ and hold this,” she instructs him with a wink. 

The Outlander lads and lasses roar with laughter, slap their thighs, snort behind their hands. They are enjoying the show too much to notice that a hat pin armed dormouse has slipped out from inside the hood of Tarra’s cloak and is making her way toward the rough twine knotted around Leif’s wrists. With a nod of satisfaction and a widening smile of triumph, Tarra turns her back to him and gazes out across the battlefield. 

She watches as the White Army approaches in ordered ranks. Her gaze moves from her mother, riding atop her faithful steed, Alfred, to her father who is carried by her brother’s friend and steed, Winsommer. The Bandersnatch gambols forward and then lurches to a halt only two dozen paces away. From his shoulders, Mistress Alice – resplendent in her gleaming armor, slides to the ground. Uncle Tarrant, dressed in his clan colors, steps up beside her. 

For a moment, Tarra is proud to be a member of such a strong, fierce family. 

But then she remembers: 

She has a job to do; in fact, it is nearly finished. It smarts that _she_ won’t be the one to deliver the Killing Blow – so to speak – to these rebels. She’d like to be able to take all the credit for the coming victory. But she consoles herself with worthwhile facts: Tarra’s role is _necessary_ and she has played it well. Better than “well”! She has played it _perfectly!_

Still, she wonders... how _exactly_ is Mistress Alice going to finish this mission? Tarra had issued that Challenge to _stop_ the White Army from attacking, to save her mother (dear Fates, had the woman forgotten her Vows _completely?_ ) from making a horrible mistake. Tarra had _not_ expected her mentor to actually _accept_ the Challenge! 

_What will happen now?_ Tarra wonders uneasily as she glares across the plain at her teacher’s hardened expression. Mistress Alice had never taught her _this_ lesson. She would like to believe that Mistress Alice had not found the time or had simply forgotten to mention the protocol for situations like this... but Tarra knows that is not possible: Alice doesn’t _forget_ things like that. And it irritates Tarra to realize that her mentor had likely _intended_ for her to be less than completely self-sufficient, less that a True Champion. 

_When this is all over, you_ ’ _ll have some explaining to do,_ Tarra silently informs her teacher. _When this is all over, I_ ’ _ll expect to receive the_ _**rest** _ _of my education!_

After all, Tarra thinks as she considers her recent accomplishments, she has _earned_ it! 

 

*~*~*~* 

 

Tamial Hightopp – Jabberwocky Pilot and Fearless Adventurer of Daring-Do! – realizes he’s made a _slight_ error in logic as he clutches Maevyn’s neck and the wilderness sweeps past beneath them. Yes, the promise of seeing his Mam _finally_ doing her job as Champion to the White Queen and the resulting rush of excitement had made Tam completely forget about Aunt Margaret, the breakfast call, and an unfortunately vacant bed in the guest room on the other side of the looking glass. 

Oops. 

But then he shrugs. So they find out. So he gets into trouble... _again._ He’ll think about that later. _This_ will be worth it, he’s sure! In fact, now that he thinks about it, why _did_ his Fa say he’d come and collect him _tonight?_ Why wouldn’t his Fa and Mam want him to _see_ this? 

Well, that hardly matters now! 

Over Maevyn’s crest, Tam can make out the ruins at the battlefield. True, he’s never been here before, but Uncle Thackery had described it _lots_ of times... back when he’d been allowed to tell Tam bedtime stories. 

Tam smiles at the memory. 

Then sighs. He misses Thackery’s bedtime stories. He misses the days when he’d been ten years old. He misses...  _home._

“There they are!” Lanny shouts, pointing over Tam’s shoulder and directing his attention to the much-closer battlefield. 

“And they’ve already started the duel!” Ian moans with disappointment. 

“Land over there!” Tam says, “on the tower ruins.” 

“Hm... all right. I think I can manage that.” 

Tam blinks. “ _Excuse me?_ ” 

“Oh? Didn’t I mention I’m still working on my landings?” 

“Er... _no._ ” 

“Oh,” Maevyn remarks and then, thoughtfully, adds: “Sorry.” 

Tam locks his jaw and grits his teeth to keep the unmanly scream from escaping him as the jabberwocky dives with sudden intent toward the crumbling stone sentinel. For a moment, he considers closing his eyes, but no! He will be brave and if this is the end, then he will meet Death head on! He will...! 

“Ooof!” he grunts, as Maevyn skids across the largest flat space available, flounders with much scraping and scrabbling of claws, and then _halts_ with a suddenness that sends Tam cartwheeling over the jabberwocky’s neck and landing flat on his back on the stone. 

“Ow,” he informs his transportation. 

“All right?” Maevyn inquires solicitously, its brows crinkling together with concern. 

“I’m docking you a bushel for that.” 

The jabberwocky snorts. 

“Come on, Tam! Get up!” Ian urges him, grabbing one of his arms. Lanny grabs the other. 

“Feel pain _later!_ Just lookit _that!_ ” 

Tam scrambles to his feet and then stumbles to his knees between his friends. They brace their hands on a fallen column and watch as the two combatants clash swords, pivot away before turning back, blades swinging. 

“Wow...” Ian intones. 

Tam is too busy staring to add to the commentary. That must be Tarra in the leather jerkin and hide shin guards because _That_ gleam of silver steel is his Mam’s armor. From when she’d slain the Jabberwocky and had ended the Red Queen’s reign. Sir Fenruffle had told them the story and had taken them to see the suit of armor once. This is the first time he’s ever seen his Mam actually _in_ it, though, and... well, she hardly looks like his Mam at all! 

Her expression is fierce yet she doesn’t seem to be in any hurry at all to finish the fight. He watches as she blocks another thrust from Tarra’s sword. Tam tears his attention away long enough to search for his Fa and... 

_There!_ Tam sighs out a breath of relief when he spies his Fa standing three paces out beyond the front lines. He can’t make out the color of his Fa’s eyes at this distance, but his hands are twitching. Maybe Tam’s sigh of relief had been a bit... premature? 

He looks back at the Champions battling in the center of the field. His Mam relents under Tarra’s sudden fury of attacks, approaching the front line of the White Army. She’s only six paces or so away from his Fa when, suddenly, his Mam moves so swiftly he doesn’t even catch the motion that nearly knocks the sword from Tarra’s hands. Her grips is strong, though, and she doesn’t let go. She twists with the blow and falls to her knees rather than drop the weapon. 

“I expected more... enthusiasm,” Tam hears his Mam sneer with surprising aggression. “Especially when I’ve most considerately obliged you with a second chance to slice open my throat.” 

Tarra climbs to her feet. 

His Mam steps forward, sword at the ready... 

She swings, misses and...! 

Tam gasps as Tarra lifts her sword and arcs it through the air. His Mam’s arms are lowered, her throat exposed above the gleaming collar of her armor and...! 

Tam reaches out for his friends as Disaster unfolds right before them. 

The blade reaches out, is nearly level with his Mam’s neck, and then...! 

And then... 

And then all is Silent. 

Still. 

Frozen. 

Tam tries to blink, to move, to say... well, to say  _something!_

He can’t. Out of the corner of his eye and to his left, Lanny is perfectly still. To his right, Ian’s expression is a mask of dawning horror. And before him...  _before him...!_

Tam watches as his Fa steps forward hesitantly. “Alice,” he whispers and Tam hears an odd lisp in his voice. His Fa _never_ lisps unless... unless... 

“Please, Alice,” he murmurs yet, in the perfect Silence, the sound carries. 

His Mam steps away from the sword tip that is nearly kissing her throat and turns toward his Fa. She holds out her hand which Tam sees is completely bare... which seems odd to him although he can’t be sure _why_ . His Fa crosses the utterly motionless scene and takes it. “I need you,” she says and Tam cannot understand how her voice can be so strong at a time like this. “Underland needs you. These children need you. Please.” 

And then his Fa lifts his hands to his Mam’s face, cradles it in his palms, and kisses her. “I luv ye, my Alice.” 

And then it all happens so fast Tam would have been shocked breathless if he’d been capable of breathing at all: 

His Mam turns back to Tarra’s blade, reaches for it with her right hand and runs her open palm along the sword’s edge. 

Blood, dark and red, drips onto the steel. 

His Fa steps up behind her, places a hand on her forehead and pulls her head back against his shoulder. His face is twisted with such pain _Tam_ feels the ache even though he does not understand it... and then he lifts his other arm, reveals a knife in his grasp and presses the blade against his Mam’s throat... 

And slices it open. 

Blood spurts and his Fa leaps back toward the White Army and then... 

And then...! 

And then everything is in motion again. 

Tam watches – frozen despite the fact that he _can_ move now if he wants to! – as his Mam doubles over, reaches for her slit throat with her right hand and stumbles back. 

“ _Alice!_ ” Tam twitches, recognizing the force of his Fa’s scream. He stares, unable to move – to _think –_ as his Fa races to his Mam’s side. He does not reach her before she falls. She tries to stay standing but the blood... there is _so much blood!_ Red and strange and _his Mam_ ’ _s blood!_ And she braces herself on the stones with her left hand – When had she dropped her sword? He can’t remember hearing it fall. – and she looks up at Princess Tarra. Tarra, whose face and jerkin are splattered with red blood, whose blade is dripping with it... 

His Mam _looks_ at her... opens her mouth to speak... and gurgles instead. His Fa reaches her then, as the blood seeps out over her lips. 

“ _Alice... Alice... Alice..._ ” he cries softly. From this vantage point Tam can see his Fa’s hands lowering Mam gently to the ground, reaching for a handkerchief and then beginning to work swiftly at her neck. “ _Ye cannae leave me, Alice... Ye_ _**promised...** _ _Us..._ _**us...** _ ” 

Tam watches the color drain from his Mam’s face. The blood is too dark and her skin is too white and her eyes become glassy and wide. Her hand flutters weakly upward, to his Fa’s face, which she touches briefly before her arm drops and her left hand – the heart line so stark it is nearly black – rolls over... and is still. 

 

*~*~*~* 

 

_“You_ ’ _ve forgotten your gauntlets, Alice.”_

It’s an utterly ridiculous thing to think, an utterly pointless memory to draw upon, in the wake of what she has just seen: 

Alice’s taunt and faulty attack... 

Tarra’s blade arching up... and then slicing through her throat. 

The blood – unsettlingly red – had sprayed so quickly Mirana had not even see it travel through the air... but there it is: undeniably dripping down her daughter’s pale face just as it had undeniably run in rivulets between the fingers of Alice’s right hand which had clutched reflexively at the gash in her throat... a pathetic and pointless attempt to stop the bleeding. 

“You’ve forgotten your gauntlets, Alice,” Mirana had observed as her Champion had lifted her sword, ready to step out and meet the queen’s second daughter. 

“No, I haven’t,” Alice had said in a soft, confident voice. Mirana had heard a small hiccup come from Tarrant in response to that, had wondered about it... 

But now... now Mirana understands why gauntlets had not been needful today. 

She stares at the fallen form of her Champion, at her pale, outstretched had... at the heart line that stretches up her third finger and toward her wrist. Tarrant’s mutters are barely audible over the shock that has rendered her mind utterly useless. From this vantage point, with his back to the opposing army, she can see his hands working _furiously_ to save Alice’s life. But a wound like that, from a blade like the one Tarra had been holding... Even the alchemist in her cannot feel that there is any hope. 

She stares, as everyone else stares, in silence. 

“No... _NO!_ _**MAM!!** _ ” 

Mirana startles as a voice – a young boy’s voice – echoes across the field. She forces her gaze away from Alice, her now-lifeless friend and fallen Champion, and watches – heart screaming in agony and tears gathering – as Tamial Hightopp races down the crumbling steps of the ruins. The very steps his mother had descended over twenty years ago... after slaying the Jabberwocky. 

“ _**MAM!!** _ ” 

He races across the field, pushes his way through the silent and shocked rebels, dashes past Tarra who stands frozen, sword still frozen at the conclusion of its arc, bosom still heaving with exertion, and then Tam crashes to a halt on his knees beside his mother’s body. Tarrant, oddly enough, is silent now. Utterly silent... and still. His shoulders are bowed. His head hangs. His hands are pressed – uselessly – against Alice’s bloody throat. He is... defeated. 

Alice is Gone. Mirana can only guess what will become of his mind now. 

She blinks at that thought, shakes herself. Yes, yes, she must act  _quickly!_

But before she can take a breath, her daughter sinks to her knees, drops her sword and says, simply, “No... _No..._ ” 

It is Leif, surprisingly enough, who reaches her first, who puts his unbound paws on her shoulders and holds her steady. 

Movement atop the battlefield ruins draw her gaze and she has to clench her hands into fists at the sight of her two youngest sons standing beside one of the young jabberwockies. Yet another tragedy today: she had not wanted Dalerian or Leivlan to see... this. She glances toward her husband who is also glaring up at the boys a top the ruined tower. Yes, he will handle _them_ . Now, she must handle _this._

Now, Mirana judges, aching for her sons – _Their innocence is well and truly lost now!_ – aching for her daughter – _She is a murderer now!_ – and aching for Alice – _Why did you lie to me? Everything is_ _**not** _ _all right!_ – aching for Tarrant and Tamial and... 

Now, the queen realizes... Now is the time to make the most of Alice’s sacrifice. Now is the time to honor her requests: amnesty and negotiations. 

Those objectives seem so... petty now. But, petty or not, they are what Alice has given her life for. Mirana must not allow that to have been in vain. Still, she cannot forgive them so quickly, not with Alice’s body cooling on the stones just a dozen paces away. 

She draws in another breath and the White Queen speaks, “Is this what you wanted?” The question is softer than she’d intended for it to be but that makes it no less audible. “Death? Is this what you sought? Are you satisfied?” 

For a long moment, no one answers. And then... 

“ _How could you!_ ” The scream, surprisingly enough is not from Tarrant... it is from Tamial. And it is _not_ directed at Tarra. “ _How could you do this to her?_ ” His voice cracks and gurgles with his tears. Tamial Hightopp _glares_ at his father. “Mam...” Tamial visibly struggles to say more. Struggles... and fails. “ _Mam...!_ ” 

“Yer Mam...” Tarrant whispers brokenly. “Woul’nae wan’ ye teh see her _this way._ ” 

Mirana concurs and nods for a pair of soldiers to step forward. They do, collecting Tam despite his flailing arms and kicking legs, and pull him off of the battlefield. The fight is not over with yet and Mirana will not tolerate another _avoidable_ death. Not here. Not today. 

She gazes at her daughter who has never looked so drawn, so beaten. And then Mirana turns her gaze back to her Champion’s body. So still. So pale. Alice, her _friend_ , is Gone. 

“What is it you want?” the White queen asks. “What did this wife, this _mother_ , die for?” 

Mirana forces herself to look away, to look out at the sea of shocked faces, many of which are streaked with tears. She aches to run to her daughter, to comfort her, but she cannot. Not yet. Tarra is inconsolable yet silent, still kneeling at Alice’s feet with Leif’s arms around her. 

“ _SPEAK!_ ” Mirana shouts, frustrated and grieving and a dozen other things that threaten to tear her apart. 

“Th’ righ’ teh bear arms,” one young man says in a gravely voice. “We wan’teh b’ proud o’ our ancestry as figh’ers. ’Tis all.” 

“Then...” Mirana forces herself to say recalling Alice’s instructions. “We will discuss terms...” 

“O’ surrender?” the young man finishes. It should have been a remark laden with defiance and victory... but it rings out... hollowly. 

Still, it must be answered. Alice, the White Queen’s Champion has fallen. Which means... 

Mirana draws in a breath, prepares the White Queen’s answer... 

“No.” 

At the sound of _that_ voice, Mirana turns, feels her jaw drop, and hears herself gasp as Alice... 

_Alice...!_

Alice, with Tarrant’s assistance, sits up, still clutching the bloodied handkerchief to her throat. Her face is still so pale Mirana fears she will fade into nothing even without the assistance of the blood of the Jabberwocky. 

“No,” she repeats on a croaking whisper of breath and, summoning her strength, she lifts her sword with her left hand and points the quivering blade at Tarra’s heart. “ _We_ do not surrender.” 

“However,” Mirana hears herself say as the miracle of Alice’s _life_ unclogs her throat, un-cremates her heart, unfreezes her mind. “We offer you amnesty and we wish to hear your claims in detail... so that negotiations may begin.” 

“Negotiations?” the young man snorts in hysteric disbelief. 

“Yes,” Mirana says, understanding Alice’s plan in a flash of insight. “No one has lost their life. It is not too late to withdraw... and begin again.” 

For a very long moment, no one moves. Alice continues to hold the blade unsteadily over Tarra’s heart and Tarra does not protest. She stares into the chalky-white face of her teacher... and says nothing. 

The young man who had spoken, who had introduced himself at the beginning of the duel as Abler Masonmark, takes a deep breath. Slowly, he nods. And then sheathes his sword. The others follow suit. 

“ _Mam?!_ ” 

Alice does not – cannot turn her head toward her son – but she drops the sword and reaches out to him. The guards wait for Mirana’s nod of acquiescence, which she gives, to release their charge. 

Tamial is across the field and wrapping his arms around his mother in the next instant. 

“So sorry, Tam,” Mirana hears Alice rasp as she alternately clutches her son and her husband with her left hand. “So sorry you saw...” 

And yes, Tamial _did_ see. 

Just as the rebels now  _See._

Just as Tarra now  _Sees._

Reclining against her husband’s chest is Underland’s True Champion. 

Mirana regards her friend, who has – amazingly – survived despite her injury... 

Yes... that very _distinct_ injury, Mirana muses, considering its location and severity... and its likeliness to scar... 

Tears fill her eyes as Mirana looks upon a woman who is and will _always_ be a Champion. 

 


	13. Unbreakable Promises

 

Later, after Mirana has inspected not only Alice’s throat but also the stitches Tarrant had so swiftly sewn on the battlefield and the Pain Paste he had immediately applied, she asks, “How did you manage this?”

Alice answers simply, wearily, honestly, “With an Uplander anatomy text.”

“Elaborate, please, Alice,” her friend orders her.

She does, explaining that while Uplanders have vital blood vessels on either side of their throats, when the head is pulled back and the esophagus exposed a cut to the throat need not be fatal. So long as it is not too deep. “I invited Tarra to try for my throat, judged the distance and... well, since Tarrant already had the needle and thread and the Pain Paste at the ready...”

“You stepped into the blade, trusting your Hatter would be able to stitch you up in a thrice,” Mirana summarizes, glaring at the clean handkerchief now wrapped around Alice’s throat.

“No one sews faster in all of Underland.”

“You are a fool.”

“A Champion. Same thing.”

“I should not forgive you. You endangered your life and frightened my daughter... frightened _me._ ”

“I don’t deserve forgiveness, most especially not from Tarra,” Alice admits, looking up across the field where Leif is assisting her onto Winsommer’s back. She still looks utterly lost; her expression is vacant and pale beneath the splatters and smears of blood that Leif had tried – and failed – to wipe off with his sleeve cuffs. Alice feels a twinge at the sight of her: a broken might-have-been Champion.

Well, there is still time for Tarra to recover. And she may yet. But _now_ the young woman knows what it feels like to take a life. _Now_ she Understands what she, as a Champion, must sacrifice for the White Crown.

The queen sighs, drawing Alice’s gaze back to their on-going discussion.

Alice smiles. “Mirana. I’m a Champion. I fight. I use whatever weapons are at my disposal to win. It’s not honorable. I know that. But that’s what I do. And I won’t ever change.” It feels good to say those words out loud, finally. To _feel_ the truth of them: yes, she _is_ a Champion... and nothing has the power to change that. “Well, unless I die, I suppose.” Yes, Death would certainly bring her Champion days to an End.

Her friend – the queen – sighs once more and then smiles. “Yes,” Mirana agrees sadly. “I know.”

She rubs Alice’s shoulder then looks up. Alice watches through blearily focused eyes as she gestures someone to come closer and, a moment later, Maevyn clatters into view. With a satisfied nod at Alice’s new companion, the queen excuses herself: “I believe I would like to have a word with my daughter...”

Alice grins at the still-young and gangly jabberwocky. “I’ve you to blame for transporting my son to this battle?”

The juvenile ruffles its crest in affront. “Well. There were Thrambleberries involved and... and... how was _I_ to know you were going to...!”

The creature snaps its jaws closed and glances around, ensuring that no one is within hearing distance before lowering its head and hissing, “You never mentioned you and the Hatter figured out how to Stop Time!”

Alice blinks. “I... What?”

“You drank jabberwocky blood and _the Hatter_ drank jabberwocky blood... You didn’t think that just faded away, did you?”

When Alice doesn’t answer, Maevyn grumbles, “I shouldn’t even be explaining this to you...” It sighs with resignation. “The two of you, _together_ , can Stop Time with your will.”

“Because we drank jabberwocky blood years ago?”

“Yes.”

“... I see.” Really, what else is there to say to that?

“Hm... good. And while we’re on the topic of seeing things: I could see it _all_ , you know,” the jabberwocky informs her sadly. “The knife, the blood... Being this close to the Time Disturbance, it would have been hard not to! I couldn’t move, but I could _See._ Watch.” Maevyn shudders. “It was horrible! And what’s worse: you’re just going to let the princess believe she nearly killed you?!”

“No!” Alice croaks as softly as she can. “Of course not!”

Maevyn seems slightly appeased. “Well, that’s one thing, then.”

“Is there more?”

The jabberwocky nods. “You should know that _all_ those present today who have been touched by the blood of a jabberwocky could see the Truth.”

Alice frowns. “But none of the other jabberwockies are here...”

“No, they aren’t, so they didn’t See. If they were far enough away, I doubt they Felt Time stop, either. But there is one more _here_ who did See.” The dragon informs her, “There’s one other way to be Touched besides by drinking the blood. If you _share_ blood with a drinker...”

Alice’s frown deepens, still not understanding.

“Tamial,” Maevyn finally informs her bluntly. “Tamial has been Touched and his eyes newly Opened, although how _that_ happened, I have no idea...”

Alice thinks of unathorized looking glass travel and a trip to the past and thinks she can make a pretty good guess on that.

The jabberwocky obligingly continues, “He shared your blood while he was in _your_ womb, Alice. Once a Drinker of the Blood, always the Blood remains. As such Tamial is not just _your_ child, but a child of the Masters of Time... and he Saw it all.”

 _Tamial saw me ask his father to slit my throat? No... NO!_ And yet... what if he _had_ seen that?

_Dear Fates...!_

Alice feels her throat work and then throb in protest as she tries to push back the despair and gather her words. The wound aches and she wonders if it’ll start bleeding again and she ought to care about that, but, brangergain i’tall, this is  _Important!_

“Tarrant,” she begs. “Tell Tarrant.”

“I already have,” the jabberwocky replies, looking up and in a direction that Alice cannot direct her attention toward without moving her entire body. “He’s speaking with your son now.”

Alice blinks up at the young jabberwocky for a long moment as its dawn-colored gaze stares back. “Maevyn...?”

“Yes, Alice?”

“Who else knows? Did you tell the queen? Is that why she gave us a moment?”

The jabberwocky shakes its head. “I will tell Krystoval, or course, but no one else will know. Nor should they. This is a very powerful – a very _dangerous –_ ability you insist on exercising with your mate.”

“So I can... rely on you – and Krystoval – to ensure... we never abuse it?”

“Yes, of course, Alice. Of course.”

“Thank you,” Alice sighs out, feeling utterly drained. “Now, why _did_ everyone give us a minute alone if they _don_ ’ _t_ know...?”

“Ah. That would be because I’m your bodyguard for the trip back.”

“Bodyguard?”

“You’ve got to admit, you need one,” the creature informs her. “You don’t take very good care of yourself, Alice.”

“Blast it. You’ve been talking to Chessur.”

“I have not.” Again, the multicolored crest goes up with the jabberwocky’s indignation. “I’ll have you know _he_ has been talking to _me_ about _you._ Non-stop since he finished briefing the queen the day before yesterday. So. I’m quite the expert on your self-destructive tendencies.”

“A perfect bodyguard,” Alice allows.

“Especially since my memory is utterly _perfect._ ”

Alice sighs... again.

“Now, can you stand on your own or do you need a claw to assist you?”

“A bit more than a claw,” she admits.

“All right. I’ll collect Fenruffle.” The jabberwocky pauses. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he has Questions for you about that performance. Eyes of a hawk, gryphons have.”

“Blast,” Alice swears... again. Closing her eyes is the only escape possible at this point and she indulges in it. Unfortunately, the next time she opens them, it is obvious that she had not _escaped_ but _succumbed_ to the blackness behind her eyelids.

Her eyes rove around the pale room: Mamoreal. Somehow she had slept the entire return journey away.

“Tarrant?” she rasps. Her lips and mouth dry, perhaps due to the line of fire circling her throat, burning away at her skin.

“No, it’s me.” And then the face of her apprentice enters her field of vision. Tarra still looks too pale even though the dark blood has been scrubbed from her face and her hair has been restored to its natural color. Tension pinches her expression and narrows her eyes.

Yes, Tarra is very Angry with her.

Despite that, she offers Alice a cup of water.

“Uncle Hatter and Tam went back through the looking glass. To say their good-byes to your family.”

“Ah.” Yes, Margaret had probably flown into a Panic when she’d realized Tam was missing from his bed. But that doesn’t explain why _Tarra_ – of all people – has been allowed to sit at Alice’s bedside and watch over her. “The queen is...?”

“Already beginning the negotiations she promised.”

“Then shouldn’t you be there as well? It’s one of the duties of the Queen’s Champion to―”

“I’m not the Queen’s Champion,” Tarra snaps.

Alice watches the emotions chase each other across the young woman’s face. “You could be,” Alice tells her, after a long moment.

“Could I?” Tarra replies on a sniffle. “Tell me something – _honestly_ ,” she continues and Alice winces at the bitterness of her tone. “Does it ever get any easier?”

“Fighting?”

“Killing.”

“No. No, it never does. Not even if you desire the death of your combatant with all your heart. It is absolutely wretched every single time.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

Alice feels her brows lift with incredulity. “I did.”

And because Tarra knows Alice is right – she _had_ been warned again and again and again about the price this position would exact from her soul – they are left in undulating silence.

“Where are we?” Alice asks suddenly.

“At Mamoreal,” Tarra replies, giving her an irritated look.

Alice exerts all her self-control and manages to _not_ roll her eyes. “I meant, _where_ in the castle are we?”

“Oh. First floor.”

“Good. Help me up.”

“What? No! I already got a ten-minute lecture from Uncle Hatter about― _What-do-you-think-you_ ’ _re-doing?!_ ”

Alice smirks as Tarra ducks under her arm. Mission accomplished.

“Damn it,” the girl swears, no doubt realizing how skillfully she’d been manipulated. Again.

“You have every right to be angry with me,” Alice tells her. “Every right. I used you. I used your training to manipulate you into doing exactly what I wanted you to do on that battlefield and I used your sword to make you think you’d slain me. That is what a Champion _must_ do, Tarra. And now I will show you _why._ ”

“Where are we going?” Tarra asks in a tone that is equal parts exasperation and apprehension.

Alice doesn’t answer. She steers her apprentice out the door and down the hall, careful not to turn her head and disturb the bandages around her throat. She knows she must look a fright and the thought reminds her of Tam... of what he had seen... of what he had – undoubtedly – not been able to understand.

 _I_ ’ _m so sorry..._ she Sends along the heart line and the replying warmth that is both his depthless love and righteous anger makes her eyes sting.

Yes, he will have plenty of things to say about this, that, _everything_... later.

Step by step, they navigate the halls until Alice stops Tarra in front of a pair of grand and ornately detailed white doors.

“The throne room?” Tarra checks, not bothering to use the _correct_ name for the room: the Royal Reception Hall for Visitors. It _is_ a rather long name, after all...

“Yes. The throne room. Open the door.”

Tarra does. The room echoes with their footsteps – Tarra’s boots and Alice’s borrowed slippers (perhaps whoever had arranged her room had expected her to need them, had known it would be impossible to stop her from wandering around the castle) – as they approach the centrally displayed chair upon the dais.

“Take a look,” Alice invites her would-be successor.

“At... the throne?”

“Yes. Look at it. Really look at it. Because this,” Alice continues, gesturing, “is what a Champion fights for and will die for.”

Tarra, however, does _not_ look at the throne. She turns her head and frowns at Alice. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking,” Alice struggles to explain, “about fighting for an _Idea_ . A Champion must fight for _more_ that just a sovereign, a friend, a family member. A Champion fights for _all_ of Underland, for the betterment of its citizens. Why do you think I’ve always taught you to confront the enemy, embrace them, call them out and _count_ them? It’s a Champion’s job to keep Underland safe and whole and united! That isn’t possible if one enemy is defeated but their conspirators remain!”

Tarra turns her head toward the throne, finally, when Alice gestures insistently once more.

“What result works for the betterment of all most effectively, Tarra? Do we meet on the battlefield or allow shadowy rumors to eat away at our country? Do I defeat you and allow dissatisfaction to grow and fester among those who have lost the fight? Do you defeat me and allow these rebels to undermine the peace that it is the queen’s responsibility to uphold?”

“You died... you nearly died,” Tarra replies softly.

“No, Tarra, I showed them Death. I showed them the dark path they were so eager to take.”

“But... what if some of them had... liked it?”

“That is a gamble I chose to take.”

“I... I...”

“Tarra, the truth is: I am expendable,” Alice insists bluntly, honestly. “One day, I will die. Likely in the service of the queen and because either I am too weak to perform my duties properly or, hopefully, because my death benefits Underland. _Think_ about this, Tarra! Is this the life you want for yourself? Do you think this is the life your mother and father want for you? To die... for a _chair?_ ”

“I... You... You fight for...”

“That chair, Tarra. I fight for the person who sits in it. The job that comes with this chair. Peace. Prosperity. The future. That’s what this chair represents. That’s what I fight for. And perhaps that _sounds_ noble, but you already know that the way I fight is not. I will use whatever I must, _whomever_ I must... to win.”

And she has. She has even used Tarrant time and time again. She had used him just before facing Jaspien and his forces, had relied on him to allow her to showcase her false weaknesses, had relied on his silence. And again, she had used him to pave her way in Upland, to strengthen her position in that inflexible patriarchal society of London. And today she had used him. She had used his hand and his knife to make Tarra believe she had cut her own mentor’s throat.

There is no denying the fact that this life has made Alice ruthless in ways she had never, _ever_ even thought would be possible.

But it _is_ possible... because here she stands.

And yet, perhaps, being ruthless is not – necessarily – a bad thing. Yes, anything is possible, if only she  _believes it is!_

 _I am not evil,_ she decides, regarding the throne in silence with her student, _but I am ruthless._

And she accepts that.

Just as Tarrant has _always_ accepted that.

Perhaps, once day, Tam will understand – according to the Oraculum he will, at the very least, forgive her – but for now... Tarrant’s understanding and her own... that is enough.

“This throne...” Tarra whispers, the tone of her voice changing, alerting Alice to a very Significant Thought occurring in the young woman’s mind.

“Yes?”

“It... Do you see how it... _breathes?_ ”

Alice nearly turns her head in Tarra’s direction at that. Nearly undoes all of the progress the stitches and Pain Paste have made. Nearly... but doesn’t. “Breathes?” Alice confirms.

“Well... yes. Do you see how the grain shimmers? Like... like...”

“Like currents in the Crimson Sea?” she ventures, not seeing anything dynamic in the throne at all.

“Yes! Precisely!” Tarra enthuses, leaning closer to the dais. “And the light around it... do you feel it?” She reaches out a hand, an perfectly unscarred hand, toward the throne, palm facing the object of her attention. “Here. Hold up your hand. Can you feel it?”

Reluctantly, Alice does... and feels nothing at all. But... she thinks she knows why. Alice smiles. “ _You_ feel it. _You_ see it.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Alice replies softly, nearly shaking her head. “I don’t have the Vision for furniture making. The Talent.”

“The...? What?”

“Tarra,” Alice muses. “Perhaps your time with Master Setteeson... awakened a natural inclination for the craft? Perhaps you have an... Instinct for this?”

“I... do?”

Alice almost laughs at her befuddled expression. “I think you just might.”

“But... what does that mean?”

“It means, if you choose _not_ to be a Champion... you do not _have_ to be a princess.” And the thought that Tarra is not _bound_ to Championhood as Alice is brings with it such _relief_ that she feels as if she is burning up from the inside out. Fear for Tarra, doubt that she and Mirana had done the Right Thing in allowing her to take Alice’s place temporarily... All of it goes up in smoke... and drifts away.

“You don’t have to be a princess,” Alice repeats. “You could be something Different.”

“Like Ama and haberdashery?”

“No, like Tarra and carpentry.”

“Into-home wares.”

“Pardon me. Into-home wares.” Alice grins.

Tarra frowns. “But... I’ve wanted to be a Champion since... since as far back as I can remember!”

“Don’t let the past limit your future,” Alice replies. “Perhaps you were meant to be a Champion... so that it might lead you to furniture making.”

“... Oh...”

“Just think about it.”

Tarra nods. Thinks.

For several long moment, Alice lets her. Eventually, however, Alice clears her throat and announces, “And now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to get back in bed before I’m caught out of it.”

Tarra comes back to the present with a blink, a smirk, and a laugh. “Hah hah! Not so tough now, are you?”

“I’d like to see how brave _you_ are in the face of a very _Mad_ Hatter!”

Tarra snickers. “Oh. Right. Good point. I guess you’d have to be good at self preservation to still be a Champion after... how long has it been? Fifty-some-odd years?”

“Twenty-two. Still having trouble with Maths?”

“Hah. Don’t tell Sir Fenruffle and I won’t tell Uncle Hatter you were out of bed.”

“It’s a deal, madam.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tarrant steps into the room, glances down at the floor beside Alice’s bed and sighs. “Let’s just dispense with the necessary facts and acknowledge that, yes, you _did_ somehow manage to convince Tarra – or someone equally gullible – to let you out of bed and go galumphing around the castle.”

“There was no galumphing,” Alice asserts on a rasp. She doesn’t bother to deny that she’d... wandered. The spike of guilty alarm that had made her heart leap had confessed her crime.

“Your slippers have been moved,” he says, offering up the evidence.

She doesn’t refute him. “Tell me how the trip went.”

He does.

Alice listens to a tale of mirror-aided time travel, a sword fight, a damsel in distress, and a...

“Lord Manchester... You honestly believe that Lord Manchester could have murdered his own son?”

“Tam believes it.”

Alice swallows as she considers that additional burden on her son’s already weighted mind. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him about monsters and men and mothers who fight for the sake Underland.” Tarrant glances away. “I think I managed to get all the words in the correct order...”

Alice opens her hand, reaches for him. “What does Hamish think of Lord Manchester’s...?” She cannot say it. Despite having known Lowell, she cannot say the words “kill” and “son” in the same sentence. “How is Winslow?”

He tells her. “Winslow is... distressed, of course. Hamish mentioned that he’d quite recently grown very close with his grandfather.”

Alice closes her eyes and curses the past. _This_ is why the past must stay where it is. _Nothing_ good ever comes of revisiting it! “How are Hamish and Margaret... managing that?”

“Hamish – with Winslow’s assistance – is in the process of investigating, although, should he find a witness willing to speak out against Lord Manchester or should he manage to locate the man whom Manchester had hired to... do the deed, he is not optimistic that anything will come of it.”

“Winslow won’t have to apprentice with Manchester Manufacturing, certainly!” Alice protests.

At last, Tarrant sinks down onto the edge of the bed. He looks tired. Perhaps fighting his natural inclination to give in to her had taken too much out of him when he is already at the edge of his limits. “Yes. Perhaps that will be the one bright point in all of this. Hamish mentioned something called blackmail, which sounds rather difficult to read, in all honesty, but he seems quite confident that it will be effective in allowing Winslow a choice in his future.” He looks down at Alice’s hand (and the heart line climbing up the back of it) where it rests on top of the quilt. “Who am I to question such certainty?”

She lets his assumption about blackmail pass. Perhaps later she will explain that while the intent of the correspondence is dark, the message is often written with the Light of Truth, making it very legible, indeed.

He reaches out and plays with the ends of her fingers. She plays back, tapping his fingertips with brief caresses. “Tam, you’ll be happy to hear, does not seem to have suffered from his overly sensible decision to confide his misadventures in Margaret and Hamish. Winslow has forgiven him.”

“We should reward him for that,” Alice remarks, thinking of their son’s selfless bravery. “It was uncommonly mature of him.”

“Yes. I already have. At least in part. What is more worrisome,” he continues before Alice can ask what Tam’s reward had been, “is that he is very conflicted over what he... that is, what he saw at the battlefield.”

“Is that why he didn’t come with you to see me?”

She had received visits from nearly everyone thus far today:

Tarra had been the first, of course. And, Alice dares to hope that her apprentice is no longer quite so angry with her.

Mally had come next, blustering and demanding answers: “There I was, hidden away in the hood of that damn cloak, waiting for Tarra to talk us outta trouble an’ then she went an’ talked us _inteh_ it! _That_ ’ _s_ what you taught her to do?!”

“Mally, a Champion has to think about the ramifications of―”

“Rami... _Rami...!_ I’ll ram _you_ if you ever, _ever,_ _EVER―!_ ” The dormouse had been too incensed to continue for a moment. Then she had taken a deep breath and, with a swish of her tail, had turned away and marched for the door. “Don’t let me catch you using princesses to cut your throat, again! If anyone’s got the right to slice you open, that’d be _me!_ ”

She’d even managed to slam the door rather soundly behind her.

Thackery had arrived shortly, declaring, “Tea!” He’d shoved the tea tray onto the bedside table and had thrown a spinach puff at her. “Nae time teh chat! A mahn’s berries need lookin’ afteh!”

“Feather-brained and pompous, hm?” Sir Fenruffle had rumbled by way of greeting, causing Alice to wince and flounder for words.

But the gryphon hadn’t come for an apology, apparently. He had, instead, continued, “Very fortunate the Hatter was so nearby and had sewing thread and a needle on hand. Very fortunate considering how _fast_ Uplander blood is. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing the blade touch your throat...”

“You must have blinked,” Alice had told him as his beady, golden eyes had _glared_ down on her, not blinking once.

Leif had bothered her next: “First let me just say, damn you Alice for teaching Tarra how to be so blasted stubborn!”

There had been a bit of shouting and bit of blaming and then, with his well of frustration dry – for the moment – he’d moved on to making jokes at her expense.

“Got quite the collection of scars, don’t you?”

“Jealous?”

“Oh, most definitely. It must take real _talent_ to flail about in battle, cutting your hand on your opponent’s blade _by accident._ ”He had shaken his head, his mane rippling.

“It was a classic Futterwhacken move, not _flailing_ ,” Alice had argued and had not told him that the cut on her palm had been necessary in transferring blood onto Tarra’s sword. And then, when Alice had grabbed her slit throat with her right hand, the additional blood from the cut on her hand had made Alice’s injury seem even more gruesome. It had all been planned. Of course, she will never tell him that.

And now, _finally_ , the one person she most desperately wants to see and speak to and _be with_ is here... But things are not all right. She cannot bluff or lie or tease her way out of this painful confrontation.

Tarrant does not meet her eyes as he says, “I have always hated what this position, as Queen’s Champion, demands of you. Tam is beginning to hate it as well.”

“I’ll speak to him later today,” she blithely assures him, eager for her punishments of the day to end and the rewards to make an appearance.

“And what will you say to heal him?”

 _That_ makes her pause. Alice knows what her husband wants to hear: he wants her to promise to quit, to announce that Tarra will take her place beside the queen. But Alice’s oath to Mirana is the one promise she _must_ keep. It had been her first Underlandian promise. Even before she had sworn to Tarrant that she would return one day, she had taken up the Vorpal Sword, had slain. Those sorts of promises cannot be Undone.

She knows what it will take to heal Tam, to heal Tarrant, but she is not capable of offering either of them what they need.

“I’ll tell him that we’ll be going back to Iplam soon. The queen will not need her Champion again for a long time.”

He frowns – fiercely – and pulls his hand away. Her fingers feel cold without the contact.

“Tarrant...” she begins, knowing there is so Much they still need to discuss. The emotions _engulfing_ his heart have not abated in the slightest despite the queen’s estimate that she will make a full recovery. She desperately wants to know why he still feels so... _conflicted_ . The danger is past. Once _again_ , they have triumphed... _together._

So why does he seem so... defeated?

“The Barterment will begin the day after tomorrow,” Tarrant says softly, stubbornly, ignoring the presence of the lingering horror between them – horror at what Alice had asked of him, horror at what he had done to her at her behest, horror at what Tam had seen.

Alice would have nodded if not for the wrappings around her throat. “And I fully intend to be there for that.”

“You should rest.” Not so very long ago, she would have expected him to insist on that point. But now his tone wavers, uncertain. She focuses on the heart line, but the message Tarrant’s heart is currently sending her only makes her more confused: there is a resonance of sorrow, a twinge of _panic_ -frustration- _ **fear**_ , and a distance that feels like nostalgia. If only that blasted knife wound hadn’t damaged it, the message might have been clearer! More easily discernible!

“I intend to help look after our Hightoppians,” she replies. “I’ll be there, Tarrant.”

Surprisingly, he does not argue. Tarrant collects her hand in both of his and raises it to his cheek. She obligingly fits her palm to the curve of his face and allows the touch to evoke her love for him. She Sends it.

He chokes.

“Tarrant?”

“I do not understand,” he lisps very softly. “How ye can luv me sae much... yet gi’ yer life teh th’ queen.”

In all honestly, Alice is not sure she understands it, either. But she thinks it might have something to do with...

“ _You_ are Underland... to me,” she murmurs. “I cannot let anything hurt your home, _our_ home. _You._ I cannot let anyone hurt you. And if a revolution were to happen... If those children had managed to rise up against the queen... Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be out there, on the front lines again, with your sword, fighting for the White Queen. Don’t tell me it wouldn’t destroy you to hurt, maim, kill those sons and daughters of your people.”

She’s not sure if that makes any sense at all, but it must have made sense to him. His smile is sad when it tugs at his lips. “You have always saved me, Alice,” he muses. “And, perhaps wrongfully, I have always hoped you would.”

“We’ll save each other,” she insists, guiding his face toward hers.

He breathes out a long, warm sighing breath as her right hand tangles in his hair. And then his lips brush over hers softly, once... twice. On the third pass, she opens to him, invites him in although no invitation should be necessary. They have been lovers for nearly two decades; her body is his, as much as his is hers.

She hears his boots hit the floor, which is good – they’ll keep the bedroom slippers company now that her feet are not occupying them – and then he settles down on the bed beside her. He lies on top of the quilt, fully clothed, but Alice is in no condition to insist on fewer layers between them. He gently inserts an arm beneath her neck and wraps the other around her waist.

He kisses her even when his breath hitches and warm tears fall on her cheeks from his eyes. She does not understand precisely why he cries – perhaps he cries for Tam’s lost innocence or Alice’s never-ending obligations to Underland or his own complacency in allowing her to choose that path – but she does not need to understand it. She Feels it in her heart. She holds onto him, kisses him, and promises him:

“I will never let you go.”

He hides his face in her hair at that declaration. He does not refuse her vow and the silence of the room – Underland itself – witnesses it... and accepts it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Is Tarra really her true self at Mamoreal? Yes. She was doing what Alice taught her to do by ingratiating herself with the “enemy”. That included hamming up the bit about being “controlled by the Soul Bond.” The Soul Bond ensures that since Mirana and Dale are not evil or cruel or vicious, none of their children will be, either. That’s all. Yes, it’s still controversial as it does impinge on liberty, but in a good way, I think. Not all limits and restrictions are Bad.
> 
> 2\. So, Alice and Tarrant can stop Time? Yes, but only by working together. They cannot stop Time separately.
> 
> 3\. So, why is Tarrant so upset? If you think it’s a little strange that he seems to be so miserable and grieving for... something, well. We’ll find out the reason for that... eventually. It’s all part of The Big OPK Plan. (^__~)


	14. Renegotiating the Future

 

“How goes the negotiations?” Alice inquires later that evening and Mirana forces a brave smile.

“Absolutely nowhere,” she admits in a falsely cheerful tone as she examines first Alice’s throat and then the dinner tray Alice had managed to demolish with a little assistance from Tarrant and a cooperative spoon.

“But with Irondirk as intermediary...?”

“Alice, they want me to reinstate the profession of mercenary. You know why I can’t do that.”

“Yes. I know.” Under no circumstances can another power-hungry conspirator be allowed to rise up against the White Queen. “But there must be a compromise all can live with.”

“I have not thought of it yet. Have you, Alice?”

“When I do, you will know it.”

Mirana bids her a good night. Alice wishes her luck with the negotiations which will resume in the morning. After the door closes, Alice listens to the soft, susurrus sounds of life passing through and around Mamoreal. She listens and thinks... and is still thinking when Tarrant returns from bathing in the bathroom across the hall.

“Are you ready to speak to Tam?” he asks, still subdued despite the rest they’d taken together that afternoon.

“Is he ready to speak to me?”

Tarrant reaches for his pocket watch pocket but drops his hand, fingers twitching, before retrieving it. Perhaps it is not working today. Again. She sighs. Yes, Time does have quite the temper when it comes to her husband. And now her son as well.

“Perhaps the more important question we should be concerning ourselves with regards the two of you finding a middle ground at the same time,” he replies.

“Middle ground, yes, I see what you mean,” she comments, frowning as the idea tickles her mind. “Middle ground is very useful... in many...” Alice trails off as the idea does more than tickle now. It whirls, races, takes flight!

“Alice?”

“Where is Jaspien?” she asks suddenly.

Tarrant scowls. “In his rooms, I should hope!”

Where she absolutely cannot visit him. Blast it all! “Well, he needs to be let out of them.” She reaches for the pull cord beside her bed to call a frog footman. Tarrant stops her. He leaps forward and snatches the pull cord away with one hand while grasping her wrist with the other.

“Wha’ d’ye think ye’re doin’?” he demands.

“Jaspien is here for the Barterment,” she replies.

“The day after tomorrow,” Tarrant confirms. “You will no doubt see him then.”

“Tonight,” she insists.

His mouth compresses into a thin line. “Be this ano’her one o’ yer duties teh Underland tha’ keeps ye from yer family?”

She winces and replies, “Yes. I’m afraid it is.”

He glares at her for a long moment. “I d’nae ken _why_ ye don’ jus’ take yer crown an’ b’ done wi’ it.”

“My crown?”

“Aye. Ye fergot tha’, tae, o’ course.” With a huff, he sits down on the edge of the bed again, as he had earlier. “When ye were a wee lass, ye found yer way te Underland on twine occasions. On th’ second, ye were made a queen.”

“I... was?” She frowns. This seems familiar, oddly enough, but the recollection is indistinct, wispy, and slithers away before she can grasp it.

“Aye.”

“But then... how did I become a Champion?”

“’Tis nae rule tha’ I know of tha’t’ll stop anyone from becomin’ a Champion,” he answers. “Bu’ th’ queen woul’ know more. An’...” he muses with a thoughtful look in her direction, “I wonder if yer unclaimed crown woul’ explain why ye... do th’ things ye feel ye must... fer Underland.”

Alice blinks at him for a long moment, her mind wandering through myths and legends, through vague memories of an Underland that she had dubbed Wonderland, through Uplandish pagan stories... pagan rites...

Somewhere, had she once read that pagan kings and queens – in times of strife and stress – had been called upon to bleed for their people, to give their lives to end their citizens’ torment? She shivers.

Yes, this is indeed something to take into Consideration.

But for right now...

Tarrant, no doubt Feeling her determination, sighs. “All right, Alice,” he murmurs, reaching for and pulling the cord. “Let’s get on with it and save Underland.”

“Thank you,” she says softly.

He glances at her, his eyes very green and even now turning bluer and bluer with the emotions she can feel from him along her heart line. “I wouldn’t know what to do with you if you changed _now_ , Raven,” he confesses with a smile.

And when Algernon opens the door, he interrupts a very ardent kiss. The poor fellow looks a bit green around the gills at the sight and Alice hurriedly conveys her request so that the fish butler can make his escape.

Which he does. Gratefully.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tarrant watches his wife – the holder of his heart and the keeper of his madness – approach the very man who had once sought to use her to gain control of the White Realm. It rankles that, even now, he cannot make that drab, gray man feel the same pain and panic and give-me-back- _my-Alice-you-worthless-scut-of-a-rath!_ that Tarrant had endured. Time has not faded his memories or his thirst for vengeance. Perhaps, one day, he will have the latter.

But, then again...

Tarrant glances at the bandage still wrapped around his wife’s neck...

Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps there will not be any vengeance. Or, perhaps there will... In any case, he doubts he’ll be able to enjoy it.

“The guards informed me that the Causwick stock had been tampered with,” the man states factually, his bland voice echoing in the room that is empty of visitors with the exception of the three of them and two members of the White Guard, even though Alice had said not a word.

“Have you taken inventory?”

“Yes. Everything is here.”

“Good,” Alice replies.

“In your opinion, _is_ it?” the man dares to question.

Tarrant’s hands fist but he does not interrupt. He stands by the door to the castle in the main hall where samples of goods – both finished and unworked – are displayed from all over Underland. Very shortly, each representative will begin bartering with their constituents’ needs in mind. And he will be very happy to have Alice at his side for that. Their Hightoppians are relying on them.

Alice’s response to Jaspien’s blunt question draws his attention away from the future and back to the present. “While I hold no fondness for you, sir,” she answers just as rudely, “I hold no ill will toward the people under your protection.”

Jaspien has nothing to say to that and, after a moment, Alice continues, “What will you trade for?”

“Wool, dried vegetables, wheat...”

“All things you could grow yourself,” she interrupts.

“Not in a swamp, Champion Alice.”

“So change the swamp into something that will grow vegetables and raise wool sheep.”

The solution sounds so simple Tarrant is equally as surprised by Alice’s flippant tone as Jaspien appears to be.

“And with what resources would earth works of that sort be possible?” the man sneers. Alice has obviously struck a sore spot.

“Not yours, of course. The White Queen would have the resources for that. You would, naturally, have to... make certain compromises in order to gain self-sufficiency for Causwick Callion.”

“Compromises of what sort?” the man asks, his tone thoughtful.

Alice regards the leather hides of the swamp cattle and remarks off-handedly, “Violence is not outlawed on your lands, is it?”

“No... Although it is no longer encouraged.”

“Yes, peace is best, is it not? And yet, it is in our nature to compete, to battle. That is the trouble with the White Realm. There is no... venue for these _natural_ impulses to be... exercised.”

“Speak plainly, Champion Alice. I am too weary to unpuzzle riddles.”

“The queen needs a place where those who wish to pursue the arts of war may do so. Causwick Callion is a place where that would be possible.”

“Are you suggesting I simply _give_ the White Queen my lands?”

“No. Of course not. How would that benefit your people?”

“It would not.”

No, Tarrant muses, the people of the Callion had journeyed there to _escape_ the high standards of moral behavior set by the queen. They would not wish to become citizens of the White Realm.

“Precisely,” Alice agrees. “I’m sure... were you to give the issue the thought it requires, you could draft a proposal that would be... _mutually_ beneficial.” Alice looks up at him and says, “An annual festival of war games would require campgrounds, a stadium, fields... _fields,_ sir, that I’m sure you could find a use for when the festival is _not_ being held.”

Jaspien regards her with his cold, gray eyes for a very long moment. Finally, he says, “Yes, I see. Perhaps the best time for such a festival would be in late autumn, to allow the participants to train during the warm summer months...”

Warm summer months... in other words, the growing season. Tarrant’s brows twitch as he considers Alice’s words. Yes, Causwick could use the cleared and drained swampland to grow their own foodstuffs and then the festival would be held following the harvest....

Alice nods. “The festival participants would be guests on _your_ land, sir. I’m sure they would bring... gifts in exchange for your hospitality...”

“I would not ask for much...”

“But they would not be a burden. They would not deplete your food stores...”

“Hm,” the man agrees. “Yes. A proposal. Perhaps sooner rather than later.”

“I’m sure the queen would like to hear it as soon as possible. Projects of this sort require a great deal of preparation.”

“Then, if you will excuse me, I will draft your suggestions.”

Alice puts out a hand to stop him. She clarifies, “I am _sure_ the queen would appreciate _your_ assistance with resolving the current difficulties the White Realm is facing.”

And – amazingly enough – the unimaginative man Understands: he does not require Alice’s endorsement for the queen to hear him; he should take this opportunity to begin to mend the rift between the White Realm and Causwick; it would work in his favor to present these ideas as his own. He replies slowly, “That is... good to hear. Good evening... and thank you, Champion Alice.”

“Do not thank me; I’ve done nothing. This meeting never happened. Good evening, Prince Jaspien.”

Tarrant watches as a prideful gleam enters the man’s eyes at the sound of his old title. No, he is not a prince any longer – not in name – but he _could_ be a prince once again: a Prince In Practice.

Alice gestures to the guards and asks them to take the man back to his rooms. “Make sure he has parchment, ink and pens. And should he wish for a message to be delivered to the queen, allow it.”

“Yes, Mistress Alice.”

“Mistress Alice...” Tarrant muses, his chest tightening with amazement and love and... “You make me unbearably be-pride-ish, lass,” he informs her.

“So, you think Mirana will accept?” she queries as he welcomes her back into his arms.

“I think... she has wanted to do something to help the people of the Callion for a considerable amount of time,” he ventures. “And I think these rebels and _you_ , my Alice, have given her the perfect excuse to help those who need it without going back on Jaspien’s punishment.”

“Which suits _you_ , I see.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll sooner forget than forgive... and while I may not have the memory of a jabberwocky, I do _not_ discard memories willy-nilly.”

“Yes, I know.”

He giggles and a bright, happy smile blossoms on Alice’s face at the sound of it. He sighs with delight; it is good to see her smile again, just as it is good to laugh again. Despite that, he has not forgotten the things that Distress him. He pushes them aside for a moment. He should not waste Alice Moments, after all. Later, he will allow himself to Remember. Later, he will grieve, rage, sob. Later.

“Everything will be all right,” Alice informs him. “And now I’m really ready to tell Tam that.”

“Then let’s locate him.” Yes, Tarrant would like to have his family back. He would like his wife and son to resolve their guilt and anger, respectively. He would like to have both of them with him at the Barterment. He would like to have both of them with him for as long as the Fates allow.

They find their son sitting on the terrace, leaning against one of the massive horse head balustrades, contemplating the pitch below. Alice gives Tarrant’s hand a squeeze before she steps outside alone and approaches their son.

 _Their_ _**son.** _

Who suddenly looks as if he has grown into his thirteen years. And more.

“That’s your Fa’s pocket watch,” Alice observes softly, seating herself on the stone railing and Tarrant blinks, noticing the object his son is turning over and over in his hands.

Tamial nods. “He gave it to me. He said I need it more than he does.”

Tarrant’s heart nearly throbs with Loss at that. He holds it back, however. He does not want Alice to think the comment is overly Significant. Yes, Tamial needs the watch more than Tarrant does. He had already consulted it... for the last time.

His son continues, “He said I should use it to find the Right Time for Things.”

“Are you having any success with it?”

“Sure. Like now for instance.”

“What time is it now?”

He sighs, squints in thought, and looks at the face of the watch. “It’s time for us to talk,” he replies.

“You can... see that?”

“I haven’t figured out how to tell him, but I think Fa already knows: I want to Master Time.”

“Of course he knows. He’s your Fa. And he’s very proud of you.”

“But he didn’t want me to see... _You_ didn’t want me to see...”

“No, we didn’t. Of course we didn’t. Battle and death is so ugly, so horrible, Tam. Of course we want to protect you from those things.”

“Well, you didn’t.”

“No. You outsmarted us. Congratulations, darling.” The words are not sarcastic, but sad. So very sad...

“It... it doesn’t feel like...” Tam replies on a choked whisper. “I don’t feel proud of it.”

“That’s good. I don’t feel proud of it, either. Neither does your Fa. What we did on the battlefield... it was...”

“Necessary, I know. Fa explained.”

“And how did he do that?”

“He told me the people who wanted Aunt Mirana to give up her crown would start a war. He told me you had to show them how... bad war is. How bad Death is. And you did. You showed them, Mam.” Tam looks up at her. “There won’t be a war now, will there?”

“No, there won’t. Your Fa and I... we convinced them not to fight.”

“And now Aunt Mirana is talking to them?”

“Negotiating, yes. We will find a solution.”

“So... you won’t have to fight again? Be a Champion?”

Tarrant Feels his wife’s internal battle. He shares it. Alice isn’t sure if she should offer their son the truth or comfort. After a long moment, he feels her resignation and listens from the other side of the threshold as she says, “I want to tell you that I will never have to pick up a sword again. I wish I _could_ quit, Tam. But this is who I am. Just as you are who _you_ are... just as you can move through Time when you step into a looking glass, just as you can read your Fa’s watch whenever you want and _not_ whenever Time lets you. It never worked very well for him, you know. Not after he...”

“... killed Time. I know, Mam. I know.”

“Yes, you do.”

And Tarrant is tempted to kill the bastard again. But no. No. He mustn’t.

“You planned everything,” he accuses her. “I should have known when Fa gave me that new jacket. It hadn’t even been washed yet.”

“I’m sorry, Tamial,” Alice says. “I should have told you why we needed you to go to London. Do you forgive me?”

Tamial considers that. “Are you going to do it again? Send me away to keep me safe?”

“We might,” she admits with brutal honesty. “Will you go if we ask you to?”

He huffs out a teary laugh. “I might.” He turns his attention back to the watch in his hands. “But I... I might not have ever seen you again if... if I hadn’t...”

She does not tell him everything has turned out all right. She does not repeat Tarrant’s lecture on duty and consequences and monsters and such. She says, “I know.”

“I could ask the watch. It would tell me how long... how much...”

“How much time we have?” Alice supplies.

Tam nods. “But Fa said not to. He said I would start counting down to death instead of living for the future.”

“I’m sure I’ve said this before, but your Fa is―”

“―a very saganistute man. I know, Mam.”

“Yes. Yes, you do.” The moment stretches, settles, and then Alice reaches out and tweaks Tam’s trouser cuff. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” he admits.

“I bet your Fa’s got the kettle on. And Thackery made spinach puffs today. There might be some left.”

Tam’s stomach gurgles. He and his Mam share knowing grins. And just as she reaches out to help him up, Tarrant steps back into the shadows and hurries for the castle kitchens. His wife and his son have just reminded him of of his priorities. He has some tea to put on and puffs to hunt up and... oh, yes, he never _did_ get around to asking for that jar of Batten jam, did he?

Tarrant smiles as life orders itself into simple, familiar tasks again. These he can handle. These are a pleasure to perform. These are the sweet moments in life that must be enjoyed. Cherished. Treasured.

He resolves to do just that.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Champion Tarranya.”

Tarra turns away from the awakening garden, away from the sun-kissed edge of the Witzend horizon, and looks over her shoulder at the approaching lion man. Smiles. Says: “Not a Champion. Not anymore.”

Leif’s brows arch. “Quitting so easily?” It would have been a taunt, had he not clearly intended for it to be a Dare.

Tarra, bless her beautiful soul, does not rise to it. “No. Exploring other options. I do have talents, you know. In other things besides whipping your tail on the pitch.”

“Hah!” Leif barks, stepping up next to her to take in the view on the other side of the garden gate. “I should very much like to see you try.”

“Oh, you’ll get your chance,” she promises. “Maybe tomorrow. Before I leave.”

“... Leave?”

She nods. “Back to Crimson Harbor. I guess Master Setteeson needs an apprentice after all.” She shrugs. “Who knew I’d have the Instinct for carpentry?”

“Into-home wares,” he softly corrects her.

She chuckles. “Thanks. Into-home wares.” For a long moment, the silence that is carried on the early morning breeze is melancholic, aching.

“You never had to become a Champion for me, Tarrash’rya,” Leif rumbles softly.

“Pompous kitten,” she chides him. “You think awfully highly of yourself, don’t you?”

Leif gapes at her until she turns and informs him in a very blunt manner, “If you honestly think _anything_ could make me do something I didn’t want to...”

He chuckles, reaches out and runs a claw through her pale hair. “Without you here to keep it in check, my ego will be completely out of control.”

“No doubt. I suppose that means you’ll just have to find time to visit me.”

“Oh, I guess I could work a few trips to the Harbor into my busy schedule.”

Tarra snorts. “You do that. It’ll be a nice change for you: managing your time instead of trying to manage me.”

“I never managed _you_ ,” he argues. “I tried – and failed spectacularly – to manage how I... I mean, I tried to... to...”

This time, the silence is awkward and heavy, teetering with the unbalanced weight of unsaid things. And, of course, Tarra refuses to tolerate that. She lifts her hand to Leif’s mane and gently pushes it aside so she can see the ornament he wears around his neck.

“Are you ever going to give this damn claw to me?” she challenges him. “It’s mine, you know.”

He chuckles at her directness. “Yes. I know.”

“But... maybe it’s best if we wait,” Tarra muses in a teasing lilt. No, her tone is not wise – not at all! – it _drips_ with Challenge. She’s too transparent to successfully wield the weapon of emotional manipulation. But, then again, Alice had never taught her how to do that. Naturally, she uses it poorly, awkwardly. Fantastically. No, Tarra does not want to _guilt_ Leif into surrendering to her. She is simply too prideful to beg for it. This is _her_ way of expressing her desires, of admitting what is in her heart. “You would wait for me, right?” she continues, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It’s just for a couple years... until I finish my apprenticeship.”

“A couple of years...” Leif muses, humor making his golden eyes glow. “That’s all the freedom I have left?”

“Oh, definitely. Once you’re mine...” She shakes her head in warning.

Leif, interestingly enough, doesn’t look all that concerned. He looks... thrilled. And then he looks... sad. “I will miss you, Tarrash’rya,” he informs her, brushing the backs of his furred fingers against her cheek. And then he reaches up, lifts the thong that holds his First Claw over his head... and settles it over hers. “... and now I won’t,” he concludes, settling the necklace against her neck and centering the claw over her tunic.

For a long moment, they say nothing... simply smile into each other’s gazes, wait for their souls to touch, to merge, to share... And then Tarra gasps, reaches for his paw. She rasps, “ _Leif..._ I can... _feel..._ ” She pauses, swallows. “Is that how you... for me?”

“Yes,” he rumbles, his own expression morphing with awe, with amazement, with flunderwhapped delight. “Yes, that’s what I feel, but you... _you...!_ How is this possible? You... for _me?_ You’re still so... _young!_ ”

He reaches for her as her hands disappear into his thick mane.

“Tarrash’rya?”

Tarra shakes her head, gently reprimanding him. “I’ve _always_ felt this way, you blind idiot. You were just too stupidly stubborn to notice.”

“Not anymore,” he swears and then leans down and kisses her.

Mirana smiles as she steps back from the railing of her office balcony and gives the couple embracing under the garden arbor the privacy they deserve. Yes, she is a mother and yes, she is inclined to snoop, but Tarra does not need her now. Tarra is _happy._ And it is Mirana’s job, as both a mother _and_ a queen, to ensure she has every opportunity to enjoy that happiness.

She returns to her desk and the proposal lying atop it. Negotiations will resume shortly and she has a decision to make.

Mirana picks up the parchment, reads it once more, and then calls for a footman. Marshing answers it a few moments later and, entering the office, croaks, “What can I do for you, Your Majesty?”

“You can deliver an invitation to Jaspien. I would like him to join the negotiations today and present his ideas.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

The frog bows himself out and Mirana glances toward the balcony. Oh, she _is_ tempted to check on them, but... _no_. She’ll settle for asking the trees later.

Yes, Tarra had been right; the ever-blossoming cherry trees _are_ terrible gossips, especially about romance.

And they _have_ been fortunate in that regard, Mirana knows. Tarra and Leif. Herself and Dale. Alice and Tarrant.

Oh. Yes. Alice and Tarrant. Mirana’s heart aches for them, for herself, for what is coming. For what neither she nor Tarrant must be permitted to prevent, to stop, to circumvent. No, _no one_ must interfere in the coming events.

And come they will.

For good... or ill.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The visit to Underland Tarrant refers to (during which Alice was crowned a queen) took place in Lewis Carroll's second book "Through the Looking Glass".


	15. Epilogue

 

All things must end.

Tarrant hates those four words, especially in that particular order. In fact, he hates them with increasing intensity with each passing day.

He’s wasting Time, he knows. Time is not infinite, after all. (It is – unfortunately – a very easy fact to forget here in Underland where people are as young as they feel and Time galumphs rather than marches.) Well... perhaps Time itself is infinite, but Tarrant’s time... That is another matter entirely.

He had forced himself not to Dwell on the future, although he had not been able to stop himself from thinking on it, he _had_ managed to keep the prolonged contemplation of it to a minimum. Busy-ness had helped: the Barterment had been a wonderfully busy time with Alice and Tam with him for the entirety of it. More busy-ness had followed that event: they had returned to Iplam, had delivered the orders that had been placed through them by residents of far away lands, had organized foodstuff exchanges; Tarrant had sewn a high-collared blouse for Alice so that they could go Above for tea while avoiding Questions; Tam had formally declared his intent to Master Time and had been introduced to the Royal Clockmaster at Mamoreal.

“I’ve never seen a young man with such a keen insight into the workings of time,” Albertie Tickings had confessed. “Although he’s a bit young to start it would be a waste to make him wait... I’d be willing to set aside a day a week to work with him, if that’s agreeable, Laird Hightopp?”

And it had been. Now Tam visits Mamoreal not only to pass Sir Fenruffle’s exams but to meet the Clockmaster. They leave in the evening and return the following night. Alice spends the day at Mamoreal with her Champion’s duties, advising the queen and training with the White Guard. Tarrant assists his skillful apprentice with more and more challenging hats. And Tamial – bit by bit – masters Time.

How ironic that this is the path his son has chosen.

How perfect that this is the path _Alice_ ’ _s_ son has chosen.

The irony and perfection he cannot – _must not_ – Contemplate, for if he starts...

Tarrant shakes his head and focuses on the hat that sits at a jaunty angle on the head of its wooden model. It is a cap, a ladies’ cap, meant to be worn in a saucy manner. Which is fine. Sauciness matches the cap’s intention quite nicely.

The base is a striking deep blue and many of the long, curling, carefully shaved feathers are variations of the same hue. They twist and curve, conforming to the wearer’s head, each with its own message to deliver. He had considered those messages carefully, just as he’d considered the color with equal care. There are emerald greens, indigo blues, violet purples, and even a magenta feather here and there. Each with a message or a thought or a wish or hope. The creation of this hat had come from the very depths of his heart, his soul.

And now it is finished.

He does not wish for it to be finished. He is not ready.

He will never be ready.

Never!

“Tarrant?”

He turns away for a moment, groping for a handkerchief and scrubbing at his eyes, at the pair of fat tears that threaten to leap from his lashes. “Yes, Alice?”

The house is quiet today; Tamial is spending the day with the Paneshines, learning about the glass he will one day use when he is permitted to make his first clock or pocket watch. He listens as Alice approaches, her feet scuffing against the rug on his workroom floor.

“You’re hurting again,” she observes on a breath, stepping around his back and making herself at home on his lap. His chair groans, but accommodates them. He watches as she pats the armrest in a silent gesture of appreciation and then looks up into his eyes.

She can only hold his gaze for so long before the mark on her neck draws his attention. His fingertips brush over his wife’s throat and the scar he had given her. (The scar _he_ had **given** _her!_ ) Every day, it heals bit by bit. Every day is a bit more Time. He should be thankful, he knows. He _should_ be, but he isn’t. Can’t! _Won’t!_

“Why are you so angry?” Alice whispers, petting his brows, his cheeks, his ears.

He shakes his head. He cannot tell her. He _cannot._

He returns his attention to her newest scar. It is healing slowly. Very slowly. Mirana had informed them that Pain Paste only soothes away hurts that are Unwelcome. It only helps the resulting scar fade if the injury had been Unwanted.

Alice had Welcomed – had Wanted – this one.

And so it heals slowly.

He leans into her touch, marvels that her hands are rough again – her students are no doubt training hard for the first Festival of War Games which will take place within a fortnight’s time – and her smile is happy and yet she is still a Lady here. She still organizes the foodstuff exchange. She still makes time to give basic lessons to the handful of young ones in the village. His wife: a lady, a Champion, and soon...

Tarrant shies away from that thought.

“Would a bit of sparring help?” she asks, rubbing his shoulders.

He shakes his head. No, no sparring will not help. Sparring will Remind him of the time, long ago, when Alice had asked:

_“Where did you learn to fight?”_

And he had answered:

_“Most of it I learned from my Fa. Then I relearned it after that Horvendush Day...”_

He shudders.

“Please, talk to me,” she whispers into his hair, against the crown of his head.

“That, my Alice,” he replies, his lips curving into a smile... _finally_ , “I can do. And so can this.”

He reaches around her and gestures to the hat – the _only_ hat – on his worktable.

Alice twists in his arms, on his lap, and regards it. “Oh! You’ve finished it? Your first Hightopp Hat Invention?”

“Yes,” he lisps. “And,” he continues, collecting it with one bandaged hand and holding it up for her inspection, “it is for you, love.”

Against and around his heart, Alice’s adoration and awe throbs... painfully. He closes his eyes and sighs. Yes, he’d known she would like it. This. His first invention.

“Try it on,” he bids her.

She takes the hat from his hands, stands, turns, seats herself on the worktable, and he watches as she places it on her head and secures it to her short hair with the clips he’d installed upon it.

He watches his wife wearing his hat, his invention...

And then he leans forward and blows, causing one of the dark blue feathers to brush her cheek, and watches a bit more.

Her eyes widen with surprise... and then a smile stretches her lips... She reaches up and trails her fingertips along a green feather and then she dares to fondle a purple one and suddenly her eyes are twinkling with a very _naughty_ light.

He giggles, momentarily shedding the Knowledge he carries with him. “You look very... fetching, my Alice.”

“Tarrant...” she whispers. She licks her lips. “What do you call this marvelous invention?”

“Why, it’s a Thinking Cap.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, yes. Each feather contains one of my thoughts... about the wearer.”

Green for memories of laughter and being together. Blue for moments of love. Purple for his passion and magenta for...

He holds his breath as she reaches blindly and her fingertips manage to find and caress one of the rare magenta feathers attached to the hat. He is not sure if she will like those thoughts. It has been a very _long_ time since she has asked him to...

“And, how many wearers has this cap been made for?” she asks, her eyes taking on an impassioned glaze. He smirks. He can guess precisely which thoughts of his she’s listening to now!

“Just one. Just you.”

“And if someone else should... try on this hat?” she dares, sliding her knee between his and along the inside of his left thigh.

“It will keep my secrets,” he assures her, slumping a bit in his chair, pressing back against her touch. “And yours.”

“Hm. Mine,” she agrees, her lips parting and her breaths becoming a bit thin. She leans forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Tarrant allows his own hands to glide up her trousered legs to her hips.

“Do you like it, my Alice?”

“I do, Raven. Very much.”

He reaches up and guides one indigo feather in particular to the shell of her ear and tucks it against her skin.

She gasps. Just as he’d hoped she would.

“Do you really...?” she whispers in his ear as his hands delve beneath her shirt and vest.

“Do I really...?”

She leans in so close he can feel her lips brush his ear. “... think I’m beautiful?”

And then she gasps as he Answers her with his heart.

“Yes,” he whispers needlessly – no, not _needlessly_ , for although she does not need to hear it – his heart speaks for him – he needs to _say_ it! “You are _Beautiful_ , my Alice, my Raven, mine...”

“Tarrant,” she sighs against his skin, making him shudder. “Thank you...”

And then she Shows him precisely How Much she likes his Thinking Cap, how much she loves his thoughts, how much she adores _him_ . And, for a short time, Tarrant does not think about _why_ he had so badly needed to make this particular hat for her nor _why_ he had rushed to finish it and fill it with thoughts.

He does not think about the future or the past.

He allows himself to forget for a few moments the unavoidable Truth:

All things must end.

 

*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*

 

 

Notes:

The Thinking Cap is based on a ladies’ cocktail hat. Here are a few pictures so you can get a general idea:

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/00011xax/)  [](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/00012852/)  [](http://pics.livejournal.com/manniness/pic/00013s8h/)  
   
 And there’s a couple of really interesting hats on [this blog](http://www.funkytrend.com/interesting-and-unique-hats/) along with another feathered cocktail hat about halfway down the page.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A short message from Manniness:_
> 
> Will Tam Futterwhacken again?
> 
> What unavoidable future is coming that both Tarrant and Mirana seem to know so much about?
> 
> Are we ever going to know what it means to Court Fate?
> 
> The answers to those questions (and more) are coming... with One Promise Kept: Book 5.
> 
> (So don’t kill me for leaving you with this cliffhanger - if I die, I can’t write, can I?)  
> (^__^;)


End file.
